


Sharp and Shiny Clusterfuck AU

by Feynite, Little_Lotte, scurvaliciousbay



Series: Clusterfuck Transdimensional Tales [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe- Freeform, Looking Glass, Multi, SO MANY Alternate Universes actually, so many
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 82,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scurvaliciousbay/pseuds/scurvaliciousbay
Summary: Found a way to pull a Deus ex Machina and rescue the pair from the Sacrifice AU, and then just kind of...threw them in with everybody else in a big ol' melting pot.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, OC/OC, Oisin/Tonlen, Uthvir/Aili, Uthvir/Thenvunin
Series: Clusterfuck Transdimensional Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1212384
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	1. Saved by Mana'Din

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sacrifice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7693966) by [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite), [Little_Lotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Lotte/pseuds/Little_Lotte). 



Whatever Solas’ aims, whatever his plans, whatever his hopes, dreams, and desperate aspirations, Aili is, by the end of it all, certain of only one thing:

It has gone hopelessly awry again.

Or at least, that’s her chief assumption. Some tiny part of her mind can’t help but wonder if maybe this _was_ his goal all along. It’s been a strange and circuitous road towards total annihilation, but then again, perhaps the Dalish were right about the Dread Wolf all along. Perhaps it was always her own perception of him that was flawed. Maybe he _is_ laughing, somewhere, as everything turns to ash and ruin at his fingertips.

In the end, the sky is burning, and she has fled with her long-lost heart to the furthest reaches of the world. Waiting, until all their time has finally run out.

Uthvir clutches her tightly. Parts of their being branching out from them in twisted limbs. Like some wretched combination of broken wingbones, and reaching spider legs, and gnarled tree branches. There is no more distinction between Waking and Dreaming, anymore. No more Fade. No more Veil. The lines have blurred even further than they ever have before, and storms of magic race across the world as the crumbling pillars of empires old and new shelter them from the worst of it. Uthvir’s claws are long, and their teeth are sharp. Because they’re terrified.

Because death is coming, and there’s nothing they can do.

Aili holds them tight. Lets them wrap their broken, battered being around her, in turn, and hums.

The ground cracks. Uthvir hisses, and the old eluvian they used to flee here with glows.

Which shouldn’t be possible. The glass is broken, the path is sealed shut. The crossroads have collapsed and twisted in upon themselves. At first Aili thinks it must only be a trick of the light. Magic reflecting off of the broken shards. And then she worries that it’s some stray accident, some terrible combination of spellwork meeting disaster, and she tries to twist her way around so that she’s between Uthvir and the glow. If that thing explodes…

The air snaps.

The light in the eluvian bursts, like water splashing upwards from the surface of a puddle, and a figure comes through. Aili blinks, not recognizing her at first. She’s dressed in finery and fashion not seen since ancient times. A white mask conceals her features, but there’s something pressingly familiar about her. She tilts her head up towards the sky, and then over, towards Aili and her Vhenan.

“ _Oh, shit_ ,” she says in elvhen, and it’s the voice that makes the penny drop.

“Inquisitor?” Aili asks, and wonders if it can possibly be. The woman is supposed to be dead. Slain by one of her own supposed allies.

But Aili had not been there to witness it, so she supposes it must not have been true. She would spare more time for doubt, for suspicion; she would spare the time to at least wonder when the woman’s fashion sense changed so dramatically, or how it could even be indulged, given the state of the world. But there _isn’t_ any time to spare, so instead she sets about tugging at Uthvir, getting them to withdraw all the distorted limbs they’ve anchored themselves with, so she can drag them through that mirror.

Whatever’s on the other side. They can take their chances with it.

“Are there are any more, elsewhere?” the Inquisitor asks, speaking common, now. She strides over, but Uthvir recoils from contact with her, and Aili raises a hand and situates herself between them.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Maybe? I don’t where they might be, though. We could be the only ones.”

She’s almost certain that Solas is dead, at least. She thinks she felt it, or the echo of it. The screams tearing through the Fade. Reality is still distorting around them, and she turns quickly back to Uthvir. Focusing on the task at hand, on coaxing them back into themselves. The Inquisitor watches them for a moment. Her expression is inscrutable behind her mask. Then she looks at their environs, and after a moment, nods.

“We have to hurry.”

“No kidding,” Aili agrees.

“Your friend might be beyond helping,” the woman notes, and Aili’s expression turns steely.

“They aren’t,” she says. She glances towards the still-gleaming light of the eluvian, and then the Inquisitor. Could she get Uthvir through there in time? Could she fight the other woman down? The ground trembles, just a little bit, and her fist clenches. She gets ready to try…

But the Inquisitor backs down. Something knowing in the gaze behind her mask.

“Get them through, then,” she allows.

Aili doesn’t quite put her back to her, just the same, as she turns to look Uthvir in the eye.

“Vhenan,” she says.

They stare at her, and their gaze is not so sharp as she’d like. Reaching over, she presses a hand to their cheek.

“Vhenan, we have to go through the eluvian, or we will die,” she assures them. Their countenance shifts. Calculating, as they take in the mirror, and the Inquisitor, and the dying world around them. Aili braces herself for any number of reactions. But she thinks she knows. They are a survivor, their heart. They will risk all manner of pain and suffering just to carry on; so she is not entirely surprised when they withdraw themselves from the barricade they have built. Breaking off distorted, eldritch limbs, and reducing them to a shape that can move once more. That can all but fly through this world, as spindly growths turn to shadowed wings, and the clutch her tightly, and move.

The Inquisitor follows after them.

The world behind them trembles, fractures – and is lost.


	2. Ghosts

They have been staying at the manor in Mana’Din’s territory for just over a month, and things have finally started to settle into place. Well. As much as they can be expected to under the given circumstances.

Her beloved is not particularly thrilled with the wards placed around their little suite of rooms, but Aili would be lying if she said that it did not afford her some peace of mind. They keep potential dangers out just as well as they keep them locked in, after all. Besides, having spent a little time looking over them, she is fairly certain she could break through their magics if they truly needed to escape. They are hardly as complex as some of the enchantments Ghilan’nain had laid down to protect her less than legal laboratories during the rebellion, but that is a skill she’d just as soon keep to herself, for now.

No point in showing her hand just yet.

Aili is not entirely sure what to make of all of this, truth be told. Mana’Din had described it as some strange nexus hub, where dimensions seem to spill into a single point and then all mingle together. There are many questions in that. And in the knowledge that different versions of the same people might have come here as well. More refugees from dying worlds, and others seeking sanctuary from various forms of injury and heartache. It seems impossible, but given how she came to be here, she must concede that some portion of it must be true. 

The manor itself is a huge, sprawling place, closer to the human approximation of a palace in terms of size, though the décor is not nearly as opulent as what one might run into in the halls of someplace like Halamshiral. Fine enough in its way though, a simple elegance she can appreciate. This Mana’Din has decent taste, at least. Much better than displaying bits and pieces of her followers on the walls as some sort of dark joke.

Aili has yet to see all that much of it, however, outside of the route from the eluvian they came through to their rooms, which she made certain to take note of, and the path to and from the dining hall. And a few brief walks around a nearby courtyard to keep them both from clawing at the walls. But today, for the sake of safety, and to stop her from going completely stir crazy, that is about to change.

The first few times Uthvir had fallen into a deep, still sleep, she had been terrified. Scared that they were slipping even further away from her, pulled down into the Dreaming, never to wake again. But she supposes that there had to be some sort of compensation for their survival, after all their body has been made to endure over the centuries. And at least this seems relatively harmless.

It also affords her the opportunity to get the lay of the land, as it were.

Not that she wishes to be apart from them, of course, but they are a bit…conspicuous. One of the main reasons she was an effective agent for the rebellion was because, by and large, people tend to overlook her presence. The deadliest weapon of the serving class.

She employs this tactic as she wanders the hallways now. An air of timidity hanging about her to suggest she would not make much of a target, with a surety to her gate that implies that she knows where she is going. As though she has been assigned some task or other by a higher-ranking follower. As though she belongs.

Once she has made a decent canvas of the inside passages, or as much as she can without breaking into people’s private chambers or cracking through a few more warded off areas and causing a scene, she heads out to inspect the grounds.

Her fox shape is easier for this, small and stealthy, padding quietly beneath shrubs and between shadows, tucking herself into corners to watch and learn. Her magic surges for a moment when she calls the spell, as it has been since she came here, but she pulls it back and bends it to her will without incident. It has been a long time since she could hold this shape for more than a few hours, but now she pulls it on like an old familiar coat, and she knows she could stay like this for weeks if she wanted to. Possibly longer. The Dread Wolf’s Veil had made so many magics harder to wield, the distant Dreaming that much more difficult to shape into an alternate perception of oneself, and even more so to keep it for any length of time. She suspects that Uthvir never had much issue with it due to their peculiar arrangement with Fear. And because their altered form is so familiar to them that to _not_ hold the changes would likely feel more strange to them now than their original features. 

Probably for the best, in the end. Confused as they were, she doesn’t know what sort of calamity would have ensued if they had woken up looking like Glory. Not to mention the sort of reaction that might have prompted from the people of this world. Maybe nothing. Maye something catastrophic.

There is another Uthvir here.

Aili tries not to think about it too much. She knows they will be different. Different looks. Different ways of speaking. …Different heart. And still she finds herself lingering on the idea as she wanders through the refugee camp that has settled outside the manor proper, almost as though she expects to see them milling about with the little bunches of frightened humans and dwarves and the surly Qunari and the awestruck elves who never truly dreamed of what their kingdom had once been. Part of her feels as though it would be fitting to find them here, amongst the lost and the broken. A lovely fragment of a shattered dream.

But they are not, are they?

This version of her heart has lived in this place long enough to have a position of importance. A life. A…family, of some kind or another.

There is nothing ruined about that.

Aili shakes her head dismissively, chiding herself as she continues her inspection. There are people right in front of her who could use assistance. Mana’Din’s welcoming arms are kind enough in their way, but the camp is a bit of a mess. Half of the people here can’t even speak to each other, let alone wield the native language of the country they’ve landed in. Even most of the elves are struggling with it. There seems to be a lot of gesturing and grunting going on. And, perhaps understandably, frustration.

She could help them. If the thousands of years she spent traversing Elvhenan and all the countries that sprang up in its wake are worth anything, it is in the knowledge of languages and cultures she acquired. Her ability to speak ancient Dwarven might be a bit rusty, but outside of that, she thinks she can at least manage to communicate with just about anyone who might make their way here. Sometimes a friendly word in a familiar tongue can do wonders. And she knows the weight of grief all too well, and that can be a relief sometimes, too. Perhaps there is some way for her to make amends for the things she helped Pride tear down. If Mana’Din will allow it, of course. 

After taking some time to roam through the crowded outbuildings and the hastily thrown up barracks, and the even more hastily thrown up little clusters of tents for people still waiting to be settled somewhere, and getting a general idea of the size and scope of the estate they are staying on, Aili heads out towards a large wooded area that she assumes to be some sort of hunting grounds. After all, there are a lot of people that need feeding, and part of that means bringing in fresh game. She is sure there must be wards placed around the perimeter, at the very least, and she would feel better knowing exactly where they are.

She passes the stables, taking note of the various mounts, but not lingering overlong. There are a few types of steeds being housed together that should probably be separated if Mana’Din wants to keep everyone alive and untrampled, but she is not certain she has the standing to point out such errors. She doesn’t exactly have a rank as of right now. And, she supposes, that there is a possibility that their gracious hostess simply does not care. Beasts and stable hands are both fairly replaceable, after all, especially when you can simply scrape up new followers from other worlds as often as you please.

Along the edge of the forest, there is a large roomy paddock that has been cleared of trees. At first, Aili thinks it might be empty, meant for some creature that has either died, or not been acquired yet. And then she sees it, a patch of gleaming white against the green. A single halla grazing in the distance.

Her breath catches in her throat.

There had been halla after the Veil, of course. Smaller and short-lived and much more prone to illness and injury. They had still known the old herding calls imprinted on their ancestors though, and watching a group of them move together across a sunny meadow or a shady glen had never once failed to ease a little of the weight baring down upon her troubled soul.

‘ _Remember who you are. Kindness. Keeper. Tender._ ’

This is one of Ghilan’nain’s herd, like the ones she had cared for at Andruil’s palace. Not a refugee like herself then, but likely a gift presented to Mana’Din. She can tell by the size, and the shape of its horns.

Still wearing the form of a little golden fox, she furtively slips beneath the fence and out into the field beyond. The halla lifts its head, dark eyes searching and ears pricked forward, sensing the intruder. Aili shifts back into an elf, sitting in the grass, and extends a hand towards the creature, whistling softly. Beckoning.

The halla hesitates for a moment, sniffing at the air, possibly feeling around for a hint of intention lingering about her, before slowly ambling in her direction. She gets to her feet and comes to meet it halfway, smiling softly as it snuffles briefly at her hands. Looking for treats, most likely.

The halla is a doe, and a fairly old one, if Aili had to take a guess. But she is trusting and gentle, which speaks well of Mana’Din. She has lead a good life here, safe and well-cared for. She does not startle when Aili moves closer to stroke her neck and scritch behind her ears. She snorts into her hair, of all things, concerned, perhaps, at the grief curling around her visitor. 

It is hard…impossible, really, to not think of her old charges. She wonders what happened to them. If they, too, had managed to escape from Andruil’s madness and slaughter. If they were able to live to the end of their days before the Veil and the fall of Arlathan. 

There are times when it is difficult to believe she is the same person as the girl who had spent days laying out in the sunshine surrounded by her little herd, composing love letters she would never be able to send for fear that they would somehow fall into Andruil’s hands. She supposes that, in many ways, she is not that woman anymore. That some part of her had perished when she had fled from the palace and joined the rebels, when Arlathan had fallen, and her parents had died, and her heart had been…lost.

Centuries of wandering, sometimes with another agent, but frequently alone. Trying to nudge history into the right direction, and slowly losing faith that she had any idea what direction that might be. Witnessing new generations of their people wither and die, barely old enough to be considered adults in her own time, most of them slaves or desperately impoverished. Her doubts about the choices she’d made growing more and more as the truth of history and magic was forgotten or corrupted. Watching the blood of everyone negatively affected by Fen’Harel’s Veil leave stains on her hands. 

And then she had won something back. Her heart reemerging from the darkness to save whatever fragments of her soul she had left.

But the world was dying. And Pride was still endeavoring to fix things by breaking them, and she wondered if perhaps that is the only way the Evanuris and their ilk had ever known how to solve a problem. By smashing everything around them into ruins. Uthvir had been sick, even worse than they are now, and there was no one to turn to. No one to ask for help. Everything was falling to pieces and all they could do was run, and keep running until there was nothing left.

It feels like a millennium since she just…stopped. Since she breathed in deeply and really felt the air in her lungs. Since she’d really felt any sort of peace.

It is not here. Not yet. But there is a chance for it in this place. And it has been a long time since she had anything like hope either. Or anything that seemed like a future.

Unbidden, the tears well up in her eyes, and before she knows it, she is pressing forward, burying her face into the soft white hair of the halla’s coat.

There are still so many things to be uncertain of, to mourn, to atone for. Her whole world is gone, and she had a hand in it, no matter how small her role might have been. And then there is Uthvir and their troubles to consider. They are all she has left in the whole of creation, and their existence is a strange, sad, broken thing. She has not let herself feel it, for the sake of keeping them focused on the positives, on the simple happiness of having what they can of one another again. But she feels it now. The weight of their suffering. And she wonders if it was…selfish, in some way, to let them languish in such a state of being. To cling to them so tightly just for whatever scraps of their memories manage to bleed through.

The sorrow around her is stifling, permeating the air around her to the point where the halla shifts in slight dismay at her distress, and she finds it is hard to draw breath between sobs, but some part of her needed this, she thinks. Something in the center of her being unclenching ever so slightly. It hurts, it aches like an open wound, but there is relief, too. Tenuous, perhaps, but enough to hold onto. And that seems to be all she can manage anymore, to grasp at life with both hands and hope that things take a turn for the better.

She is not certain that she deserves it, though.

“I do not think our illustrious leader would appreciate someone using her prized halla as an impromptu handkerchief,” a smooth voice drawls out behind her. 

For half a moment, she thinks she must have fallen asleep somehow. That she has strayed into the Dreaming and some spirit has pieced together one of her old memories as a lure. Because she knows that voice. She knows it as well as she knows the features of her own face, the feel of her own magic, the beating of her own heart.

But they should be asleep. She knows she would have felt them wake.

Aili turns to see a figure in red leaning casually against the fence, and the force of her surprise is strong enough to send the halla jerking back and away from her. She feels a distant trill of guilt at that, but most of her attention is fixated on the person lingering outside of the paddock. Staring at her with narrowed eyes. Suspicious.

They have different vallaslin, but other than that…they look the same. Exactly the same. Same face, same hair, even the way they hold themselves is precisely the way she remembers them. Sharp and lucid and whole. Before…everything.

Emotions come flooding out of her in a torrent, as though she is screaming them at full volume. Tender devotion, and poignant longing, and staggering grief. Unthinking, she stumbles a half step towards them, raising a hand to reach out, needing to confirm the truth of her own senses.

They pull away from the fence, and the paddock, and her, emotions tightly concealed, suddenly on guard.

Aili blinks, suddenly remembering where she is. She lowers her hand back to her side, focusing on drawing her feelings back into herself. She did not have to worry about such things when the Veil was present, and it is easy to forget, sometimes.

“You…you must be…the Uthvir who came here with Thenvunin?” she scrapes out after a moment, biting back the sting as she realizes that there is no recognition in their gaze.

“…Yes,” they admit, still eyeing her warily, “You…knew some other version of myself, I take it?”

“Yes, I did,” she nods at them, daring to walk a bit closer, moving slowly, “I mean, I do. I do know them. Still. …Always.”

“They came with you, then?” Uthvir asks, glancing about for some sign of their counterpart, “Your reaction at the sight of me was somewhat…visceral. I assumed they had been lost.”

“No, they are simply…not very social,” she hedges awkwardly, “And you are…different. I was caught off guard.”

“Different, how?” they wonder, folding their arms across their chest.

Aili stares at their face for a moment, entranced. Clear eyes. Confidence. No shaking or sweating or suddenly changing shape without warning. No reaching out to pull her into their arms. The list goes on, and she is not sure how to answer them.

“You are so…young,” she declares softly. It is not a lie, even if it does not even begin to cover the ways in which this Uthvir is divergent from the one she fell in love with. “You remind me of how they were when we first met.”

“And how did that come about?” they ask, quirking a brow, seeming genuinely curious.

“A party for Andruil. In the city,” she replies, a grin spreading across her face. Wistful. “I was a server, and you were quite the boorish hunter, so I put soap in your wine. You thanked me by dumping the pitcher over my head and ruining my dress. I managed to peg you with a passing tray of oysters before you hauled me out of there, though. It caused quite a scene.”

Both their eyebrows rise in astonishment.

“And you were…fond of this other version of myself?” Uthvir queries, seeming bewildered and amused all at once, “You are close to them? By choice?”

“Let’s just say they grew on me with time,” she grins, “And I am as close to your alternate self as one person can be to another.”

“Married?” they ask with an air of mild disbelief.

“Never officially,” she shrugs, a hint of bitterness stealing across her features, “Your former lady would never have allowed it. I could never be more than a casual dalliance, in public anyway. One lover among many. We are…bound to one another, though.” 

“And she did not… Andruil did not harm you?” they ask, ducking their head slightly, as though possibly dreading the answer, “She did not order you to serve the other hunters?”

“Well, I suppose she did try to have me killed that one time,” she replies dryly, a slight frown forming on her face, “Though my understanding was that she was merely looking for more expendable servants to use as blood sacrifices, so it didn’t really have much to do with romantic entanglements. At least, I never thought so. I belonged to Ghilan’nain, and that was my most apparent shield against her whims while I lived in the palace. Your alternate self was, naturally, my other great source of protection. I’m not sure how many times they scraped me out of trouble, but I’m willing to bet that it was…a lot.” 

“For nefarious, selfish reasons of their own, no doubt,” Uthvir comments with a smirk. 

“Well, that is what they always told me,” she laughs, and it feels so good. To have something to laugh about. To look at the past and feel something other than pain.

She gives them another long assessing look, eyes bright with unmistakable fondness.

“You are… not exactly as they used to be,” she notes, “Softer, perhaps. Quicker to let others see how you are kind. Was that from raising a child, I wonder…or something else?”

“You have me a quite the disadvantage,” Uthvir replies, stiffening in slight discomfort, “You attempt to read my character as though it is an old book that has been sitting on your shelf for years, and I do not even know your name.”

“I’m sorry,” she hastily backpedals, wincing, “I didn’t mean to presume so much. I…would like to hear about your life, if you care to share it with me someday. I admit, I…am not quite used to the idea that I am unknown to you. …She must be very lonely, I think. The version of myself in your world.”

“I doubt she knows the difference,” Uthvir drawls, not quite meeting her eyes, “And you still have not told me who you are.”

“…Aili,” she breathes out after a pause, as though expecting it to spark some sort of recognition in their eyes. But of course, it does not. They are not her heart, no matter how similar they might seem. “My name is Aili. Former tender of Andruil’s halla, and occasional agent of ill-advised rebellions.”

“An interesting conglomeration of titles,” they note, and then their eyebrows rise a second later as revelation strikes them, “You are the woman Thenvunin met. The one who…who came with the monster.”

“Don’t call them that,” she snaps, bearing her teeth slightly in irritation, stepping up against the opposite side of the fence in a clear challenge, “No one gets to call them that. Not even you.” 

“Then it is… They are…” Uthvir stammers for half a second, caught off guard. Then the air around them grows strangely chill. The shadows around them lengthening as they suddenly grasp her by the forearm. “Do not tell Thenvunin,” they hiss out, “Do not tell anyone. That that creature was once… That I am…”

Their eyes meet and Uthvir scowls at her.

“How much do you know?”

She decides that she does not care much for being manhandled. Even by someone who mirrors the old memories of her Heart so closely. She does not want to hurt them, but she’s not about to let them push her around, either.

By way of an answer, Aili reaches out with the fragment of Glory that had merged with her so long ago, coursing up through the hand they’ve grabbed her with, searching for those shinning places deep within them. They are still there, humming in perfect harmony and sameness, as it does when she touches her own Uthvir, though without the added link of emotion. She takes hold of the connection and _pulls_.

Uthvir gasps, stumbling away. Fear rushing up and flaring out behind them like a long dark cloak laying in the grass. Caught between warring impulses to flee or fight.

Aili takes their moment of indecision to move further down the fence and vault over it. She does not press forward to close them in, but she makes certain that she has a clear shot back towards the manor, if she needs it. The air is thick with tension, her hand hovers over the hilt of her spirit blade, and…this was not how she wanted this meeting to go.

“Everything,” she pants out finally, “I know…everything. Who they were. Who they are. What was done to them. I…promised that I would find some way to protect them. I wasn’t very good at keeping that promise, as it turns out. I…would not blame you if you wanted some sort of retribution for that, but I cannot allow it. My Heart needs me, and I have to think of them first. If you kill me, I am not sure what they will do, or what might happen to them. I…do not want to hurt you. Ever. Please, if there is something I can do to convince you…”

Uthvir gives her a look, and she can tell they are doing their best to dissect her motives and likely course of action. Trying to pick apart her fears and worries and find some trace of malicious intent. At length, they sigh, and relax their stance slightly, though she can tell it is mostly for show. They will still be on edge after her trick with the piece of Glory.

“You are a strange little creature,” they tell her with a faint smirk that does not quite reach their eyes, “I admit, I am not certain what to make of you. I suppose the most judicious way to begin things would be to ask for your word that such delicate information about myself will not be shared with others.”

“Granted,” she acquiesces easily, “It is a promise I have made before. Though I must include a caveat that certain parts of their past may be shared with Mana’Din in the interest of helping to find a manageable solution to handling their…condition. Nothing about before you were given to Andruil, of course, and as few details about Fear as I can manage. It is fairly obvious that they have joined with a spirit, after all, but we do not need to make it apparent that you are in a similar condition.”

“I…suppose that is not…unreasonable,” Uthvir allows begrudgingly. Aili grins, a tenuous, uncertain thing, but she holds out a hand to them none the less. An offering of peace.

Uthvir takes it, and there is a slight flash of magic as the agreement seals itself. A relieved sigh slips out of them. Aili’s smile grows wider.

“I’ll protect you this time,” she says suddenly, still with a grip on their fingers, “Vhenan must come first, but… I will do my best, to keep you safe from harm as well.”

The magic flashes again and Uthvir blinks down at their hands, startled, before pulling away.

“I am not them,” they point out firmly.

“No,” she agrees, “You have a different story. A different life. Different memories. All those things that piece a person together into different shapes. But…your heart is much the same, I think. The same spirit at your core. You still…shine.”

“Who _are_ you?” they ask, seemingly baffled.

“According to you, I’m a wondrous fool,” Aili laughs. She glances away suddenly as she feels a sense of confusion and wanting reaching out for her, still languid, as though thick with sleep. “Forgive me, but I must go. Vhenan will be awake soon, and I do not want them to think I have left them.”

“You…do not mind, then?” Uthvir calls after her, as though they cannot quite seem to help themselves, “It did not bother you to learn what they were? …What I am? You…want to stay with them regardless? You still…care for them?”

She looks back at them over her shoulder, making a face at them as though they’ve just said something foolish. She softens after a moment though, smiling gently, and letting her emotions flood out of her again, gently this time. Boundless adoration and devotion, and a genuine, warm affection flowing out to brush over them like a tender caress.

“Oh, how the sun loved the moon.”


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Flashback! D:

Night is the worst.

Night is when Uthvir is most likely to forget that she is dead. Especially if they try and sleep.

Most of the time, they can focus on other things, beyond the phantom pangs in their chest. There are distractions, there are problems, there is, if nothing else, the ever-pressing need for _survival._ Andruil has become increasingly unhinged, and Uthvir’s life is ever-more balanced at the edge of a narrow blade. That is more than enough to consume their attention for hours, days, weeks…

But inevitably, they must lay their head down to rest. They still need sleep, no matter how they put it off. The lyrium has given them more leeway on this front, but even that strains them in untold ways.

And when they do, they feel her. Like an echo, or a fragment. Like Glory’s memories, still rattling around the back of their mind. Another malfunction of their form, they suppose. A phantom of feeling, that rises up in dreams and calls out like a ghost.

Aili is dead.

Andruil killed her.

But sometimes Uthvir is too exhausted to remind themselves of that. Sometimes, they sink into dreams, and imagine that they find her there. Waiting for them. Calling for them with words they cannot hear, and reaching out hands that can never seem to grasp them. Even when they move towards her - and they do not always, out of same nameless fear that they will poison her, somehow - they can never actually seem to reach her. Whatever spirits seem inclined to take her shape are canny enough that they somehow slip past Fear’s guard.

Uthvir _tries._ But what they are trying, they do not know. To reach her? To stop seeing her? To remember? To forget?

Sometimes they even grow wings, and try to fly towards her. Spinning through endless night skies, driven by a single, golden thread that flickers like a wavering heartbeat. But they never succeed. Whatever they are trying to do, they only know that they keep failing at it, time and again. That it wrenches at them, haunting them with violet eyes that are filled with sadness and betrayal, until they wake in cold sweats with aching ribs and the taste of blood at the back of their mouth. As if all their bitten-off screams have torn through their throat instead.

It might be the death of them, if they let it.

Tonight is the first time they touch her.

It is brief. One of their hands closes around hers, as they tumble through a star-strewn sky. Shining, surrounded by strands of light and warmth. The sensation echoes through them. Startles them. She speaks, and they _hear her._ For the first time in years, they hear her voice.

“Uthvir!” she calls. “Uthvir, why-”

They wake.

The shock of it snaps them out of sleep. Out of their bed, too. Tumbling to the floor, biting back a curse as their wings snap from their back. As the dream consumes half of their consciousness, still, and a strange light fills the room. And Fear reacts, trying to end some perceived threat. The lamps in their chamber shatter, and their wings smash against the floor, and a few scars on their back tear themselves open as their heart beats so _fast._

_Uthvir._

No, no, stop it. She is dead. Stop it, they cannot…

_Uthvir,_ **_please_ ** _._

They reach for their bedside table, scrambling, and after a moment pull a blue vial from the top drawer. With shaking hands, they down it all in a single, burning swallow. The odd light in the room turns from gold to white to something icy and cold, before finally dying down. Power, like lightning, scorches through their veins, and drowns out the echo of her voice. Their heart hammers and their wings flail, and blood trickles down the side of their waist.

With a gesture, they seal the re-opened wounds.

With another, they shift their wings away again.

Then they sit beside their bed, and wait for the room to stop spinning.

_I am so sorry, vhenan._


	4. Forgotten Dreams

Things are not good.

Uthvir is exhausted. Their limbs are trembling. Andruil bid them drink more lyrium than they can recollect her ever demanding before, and she gave them no task to accomplish by it. Their perception of reality keeps slipping, as Fear struggles to maintain their senses; to figure out what they can do. But their power is contained in their chambers here, and it is hard to… focus. Sleep is strange, elusive and demanding all at once. The lyrium renders their dreams as fragments, and they black out so many times that they lose count.

They need something they can focus on. Andruil is going to the city tomorrow. To Arlathan, for a council meeting. To settle matters with some of the others. She plans to seal them away, while she is gone. It is why she made them take the lyrium The sealing… it is going to be unpleasant. Uthvir does not know what she has planned. Part of them thinks they should leave, that it is a ruse and she means to sacrifice them, instead. But she would not sacrifice them, not now, she needs them. That is why she means to seal them away, she is too nervous of bringing them to the city, but distrustful enough that she suspects they would leave once her back is turned.

Facts. Theories. Uthvir cannot tell what is paranoia and what is reason. They collapse against their blankets and cushions, and wait for the room to stop spinning. Spirits and echoes from the Dreaming whisper at them. Fear helpfully draws upon images of blood and death and rituals that they do not recognize.

Past they pain, they feel something thrumming. Steadier than their own erratic heartbeat.

_…Vhenan…?_

Uthvir reaches for the steadiness. Too desperate for balance to care where they find it, to think that this may be a false floor that will simply drop out from beneath them. They press a hand to their chest, not certain if they are awake or dreaming as they feel a slow trickle of warmth begin to reach them. Spreading slowly, like light spilling from a door that is being opened by the barest of margins. Their veins feel like ice. It bids them move closer to that light, to that warmth. One of their hands moves to close around a nearby cushion. Another part of them reaches elsewhere, and they warm just a little bit more.

_Vhenan!_

They see… fair hair spilling over a plain mattress. Bloodied armour laid out onto a table, as moonlight streams in through the windows. Not a room they know. The patterning of the window looks vaguely of Mythal’s styles, with branches in the design. But Mythal is dead, and so is the woman they see lying across from them.

That does not seem to be as important a fact as they might guess.

“Aili,” they say, on a soft exhale. She looks tired, too. Dark circles underneath her eyes, and some bruises on her legs. Tired, but breathing. Her eyes are wide as she stares at them for a moment. Then she reaches out, and brushes her fingers carefully across their cheek.

“Vhenan,” she replies. Sounds so real. “What happened to you? Why haven’t you come to join me?”

Join her?

Perhaps it is a betrayal that they have not, in a way.

“I cannot let myself die,” they say.

They reach out for her. When she does not shy away from their touch, then, they pull her closer, and it eases some of the trembling in their limbs.

“Die?” she asks. “What - what is happening? Why are you still with Andruil, why have you not _left?”_

Uthvir swallows.

“Where would I go?” they wonder.

“To _me!”_

Her grip tightens on them, and they feel a surge of… something. It hurts, but sweetly. Like a healing spell.

“You are dead,” they whisper. They should not forget, but they do not want to remember. Perhaps it does not matter. Perhaps, if Aili can be dead but can also be here, then death is not what they have feared.

“What? No I am not,” she tells them.

Lies.

“Andruil killed you,” they say, as some addled part of them wonders if perhaps she does not know? Perhaps she forgot, in death. It would be nice to forget such things, if it were possible. To just have a pleasant blankness, no troubles, where all the painful memories ought to be. They are flattered that she recognizes them, in that case.

“She didn’t,” Aili refutes, though. “How could I be dead, when I am still reaching out to you? Vhenan, is this why you haven’t answered me?”

Uthvir closes their eyes. Lights still dance across their vision, as they hold her closer.

“My Aili is dead,” they whisper.

“ _Uthvir,”_ she says, firmly. “Where are you? What is happening to you? How much Titan’s Blood did you drink?”

“Too much,” they admit. “I am sorry. I am so sorry…”

“Where are you? Tell me,” she commands, and Uthvir responds by way of reflex, to the tone and the authority and the habitual sense that they must Obey Their Lady. Even if Aili is so different from Andruil as to be night and day.

“The palace,” they say. “Andruil leaves for the city, soon. She is going to seal me away before she goes. So that I cannot escape.”

“The summer palace?” Aili checks.

“Yes.”

“I will come. Just hold on Vhenan, and I will come and get you.”

Uthvir lets out a shaky breath, as they feel themselves slipping into the blackness again.

“You are dead,” they murmur.

They feel a palm press flat against their chest. Warm and reassuring, each fingertip chasing away the chill in their ribs.

“I’m not. And when you see me, I will prove it,” she promises them. “You are going to feel very silly, Vhenan, but it’s alright. It’s alright. Everything… everything will be alright. I will come for you.”

The blackness they fall away to feels less dire than most. Even if it is only a dream.

~

Aili is having a bad dream.

Nightmare comes out of the depths of their own erratic sleep to find a few opportunistic spirits have ventured closer, and the air around Vhenan is sour and unhappy. Heavily with guilt and sorrow, and _fear._ They chase the scavengers off, but before they can move to settle the dream, Aili wakes. Coming to in their arms as a ragged breath passes her lips. Her back is pressed snugly to their chest, and her arms are wrapped around one of their cushions. But after a moment she twists in their arms. They loosen their grip, and let her roll over and wrap her arms around them instead.

She starts crying.

She fights it, they can tell. She usually does, for their sake. Crying distresses them. But it is not as if they wish her to refrain, if she needs to. They swallow back their own alarm, this time. Assured in the relative security of their space, and her need for comfort, as they begin to carefully rub at her back. One of her hands tightly clutches the back of their shirt. Her breaths turn to sobs, and sorrow and regret escape her.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” she says.

“I have you,” they promise. “Shh, I am here.”

They fit her head beneath their chin. Her cheek presses to their chest, seeking out their heartbeat, until they are a tangle of limbs and askew blankets. But some of the misery in the air calms. And after a few minutes, Aili’s sobs taper off, and her own hands move from clutching them to rubbing gently over their sides. Away from the dangerous territory of their scars.

Nightmare does not feel them so much tonight, however. Her touch is easy to accept, and the comfort she seeks equally easy to offer. She murmurs their name a few times, and presses kisses over their heart. Nightmare slips a hand up under her shirt, in turn, and spreads it over the warm skin of her back. They conjure up a little magic. Just the tiniest bit; enough to soothe tensed muscles, and ease their sense of presence even closer to her. They have found the feel of their magic settles her, often, in ways that sometimes a simple touch or the sound of their voice does not.

Their magic, after all, was not something she could feel after the Veil went up. Not until she found them again.

“I forgot that dream,” she whispers to them, at length.

Nightmare presses their lips against the top of her head.

“What dream?”

A sigh escapes her, along with a rush of guilt. Old, stale, but persistent. They answer with the best assurance they can. They have both made mistakes, but she is not to blame for what happened to them. The reverse, they think, cannot be said; though she has often tried to assure them as much.

“Before Solas put up the Veil. I saw you in a Dream,” she says. “You told me where you were. You _told me._ And I… I lost it. After the Veil went up, and the Dreaming was severed. We all forgot so many things we learned in dreams…”

Ah.

“I forgot, too,” they admit, which is true enough. This dream is not one that they have held onto. Much of what happened in the worst throes of their lyrium treatments has vanished in utter fog. Aili redoubles her grip on them again, and cries more quiet tears. Her shoulders shake.

“Shh,” they soothe.

“I promised to find you,” she whispers, in broken confession.

“And you did,” they say. “You rescued me, Vhenan.”

A pained sound escapes her. Nightmare understands it, though. A happy ending does not always undo a tumultuous journey. They both have their scars to bear, and burdens to carry, and remorse to live with.

But they _live_ with it.

Nightmare curls around Aili, and shares comfort until dawn.


	5. Babes in the Woods

It has been more than five years since Mana’Din plucked Aili and her wounded heart from the jaws of death and brought them to the Hidden Estate.

It is not a very long time in the grand scheme of things, but it is long enough that their situation seems to have settled into something of a rhythm. Vhenan is slowly regaining their equilibrium, although their condition still seems to fluctuate day by day. The other Uthvir and Thenvunin stop by and say hello when they are not busy with their own duties in Daran. Uthvir more often than Thenvunin, naturally. They are not quite friends, not lovers, and not family, but it is…something. Connection. Aili has them, and her heart, and her work, and it is more than she ever thought she would have after the Veil went up and the Empire fell.

More than she could ever deserve. 

The Lavellan who has grown up as Uthvir’s daughter wants to explore the other worlds through the Eluvian as Aili does. As the other version of Lavellan that rules this territory does. She is of age, and she has permission from her superiors, but her parents are still not happy about it. She has offered to keep an eye on her, but she doubts it is much consolation. The trust between them all is still thin and brittle.

Vhenan’s condition unnerves them, and her familiarity with Uthvir and their secrets makes her a potential threat. It is understandable, even if it hurts. And it hurts more than even she expected.

Despite their improvement, Vhenan still gets anxious if she is away from them for more than a few days, so Aili’s scouting ventures have been somewhat limited thus far. She is usually sent to worlds that have already been stabilized, as opposed to exploring new ones. Her duties primarily involve checking on the progress made by other agents, and bringing reports back to Mana’Din for review. It is hardly less fascinating despite being a glorified mail carrier.

But there have been occasions where she has been the first to set foot in a new world, and she has made some discoveries of her own. She has met a few people with some achingly familiar faces, and one or two who she had not known by sight, but had heard of through others. Desire and Glory. Uthvir and Thenvunin. Her old friends from the Lower City districts. Her parents. She has even seen a few different versions of herself, although she tends to keep her distance.

Perhaps that is why it takes her a moment to recognize the injured woman in the temple.

The eluvian that connects this world to Mana’Din’s is out in an old abandoned shrine deep in Mythal’s territory. It had not started there, of course, but the mirror’s original location was a bit too conspicuous for agents to be passing through at regular intervals. It had taken quite a bit of effort to move it, but Mana’Din had wanted a reliable escape route for anyone who might need to flee from the Empire. The Evanruis have already risen to power here, and events seem to be following the typical path to war and ruin. It has not been determined if an intervention should be made yet, though. Or how to go about it.

None of the scouts have visited this particular world for nearly a year, and Aili had volunteered to do a check-in to see how things were progressing on the political front. It’s a fairly easy job, and one that she has handled several other places before. Usually, it only takes a day or so to overhear enough information for a report.

Needless to say, Aili had not expected to step out of the eluvian and find a woman slumped over on the floor in the next room. And she certainly had not expected the woman to be an alternate version of _herself_.

Clearly, the feeling of surprise is a mutual one.

“Who…are you?” the other Aili rasps at her. Her breathing is labored, and she is caked in dirt and blood, curled tightly around some sort of bundle, or perhaps a pack. “You can’t…be in here. No one can be here. Vhenan… Uthivr set the wards. We’re the only ones who can get in.”

“I came through the eluvian,” Aili tells her, “So, technically, I was already inside. Are you hurt?”

She takes a step closer, hand reaching out with the intention of healing.

“Keep back!” her other self snaps, sending a weak spurt of flame in her direction as a warning, “You can’t have used the eluvian; it isn’t connected to the network anymore. We checked. And stop using my likeness, it’s creepy.”

She lets out a series of wracking coughs, and blood dribbles down her chin. Not a promising sign. Nor are the bronze markings on her face. Falon’Din’s vallaslin.

“I can change my features if you like, but this is the face I was born with, just as you were,” Aili says softly, “My father’s name was Adhamh, and my mother was Ina’then, and I grew up in a little settlement deep in the wilds of Ghilan’nain’s territory. The first shape I learned to take was a fox, and I used to use it to sneak out in the evenings and sit in the halla paddock and watch them graze. I came from another world, which I’m sure you don’t believe, but if you don’t let me heal you, you’re liable to bleed out onto the floor.”

“It’s no use,” the other Aili grimaces, “The hunters used poisoned weapons. They’re the only ones allowed to carry the antidote, so their prey has to come to them willingly if they want to live. If you are who you say, then you can’t help me, and if you are a spy, then I would rather die than be captured. I won’t be his pawn or his plaything.”

“You said Uthvir set the wards here; what happened to them?” Aili asks, feeling a deep chill settle in her gut. Dreading the answer. “Maybe the two of us could kill one of the hunters. Bring the antidote back…”

“Taken,” her counterpart says with tears welling in her eyes, sounding beaten down by it, “Either that or dead, but I do not think so. Falon’Din wanted them alive. They stayed behind so we could… _I_ could escape.”

“They saved you from serving Falon’Din?” Aili wonders, “Is that how you got out here?”

“Only…by chance,” her other self replies haltingly, “There was a… ‘celebration’ when Ghilan’nain presented me to Falon’Din. An appeasement…to make him stop harassing a few of her border towns. Andruil…thought it would be… _amusing_ for Uthvir to be there because…”

“Because of their past relation to Glory,” Aili surmises. The other version of herself nods weakly. “Am I right in guessing that this party ended with some sort of disaster?”

The other Aili nods again.

“We…ran,” she says, sounding tired now, “It all happened so fast. Accusations and fighting…magic and blood. Uthvir was discovered and I…saw my only chance for escape. And we just kept running. Kept moving and hiding. For more than two years, until…we had to stop.”

“Why would you have to stop?” Aili wonders.

Her other self seems to rouse herself a bit at that, tightening her grip on the bundle in her arms again.

“Are you…really another version of me?” she asks with a slight edge of panic, “How can I trust you?“

“I am,” Aili says firmly, “I would swear it, if you asked me. I will promise anything you need me to in order to feel safe. Let me help you, the elvuian to my world is just in the next room, and we have Healers who have expertise in treating all sorts of wounds. Even poison. I can carry you if you don’t think you can walk. Please, let me try to save you. And then, once you are well again, we can come back and rescue Uthvir. Together.”

“You would…rescue Vhenan?” she blinks at her in disbelief. “But you’ve never even met them.”

“I have an Uthvir of my own, whom I love dearly,” Aili tells her, “And even if I did not, I would hardly abandon anyone to Falon’Din. I can meet them when you introduce us.”

“I would…like to see them again,” she sighs.

"And you will,” Aili smiles at her.

The other woman shakes her head tiredly.

“It is too late for me,” she says, her voice thick with regret, “And besides, you’d never be able to carry both of us safely through whatever crossroads you took to reach this place.”

“Both of you?” Aili blinks in confusion.

The other Aili nods, shifting the bundle in her arms to reveal a small round face surrounded by blonde curls, swaddled in furs and fabric. A baby, likely no more then three or for months old. Sound asleep despite all the panic and commotion this day must have brought.

“Is that…"Aili beings to ask before her voice seems to fail her, overcome with awe and something that starts the prickle of tears behind her eyes.

"Mealla,” her other self breathes out, expression softening at the look on her face, “My daughter. I put a sleeping spell on her when the hunters attacked, but it will wear off soon. I don’t want… She shouldn’t see…what happens to me.”

“But you _have_ to survive now!” Aili insists, “Your baby needs you! If we’re quick and careful, I’m sure I can get you both back to my world.”

“The journey to your home…is it safe?” they dying woman asks.

Aili thinks of the long slick paths woven from spellwork. The vast hungry darkness between this world and her own. It is not overwhelmingly perilous, especially not for those who have walked its paths several times over, but it is not completely free of hazards either.

Her other self seems to read the answer in her silence. She heaves a deep sigh which turns into a harsh sounding cough. Aili reaches out to lightly touch her arm in consolation.

“You can’t gamble my daughter’s life for the slim chance of saving mine,” her alternate self informs her in a tone that implies that she is not going to hear any more arguments about it. She shifts her arms slightly in order to take hold of Aili’s hand, gripping it fiercely with what little strength she must have left. “You told me that you would make whatever promise I asked,” she reminds her, “Tell me that you will take my daughter far from here. Someplace sheltered and secure; beyond the reach Falon'Din’s gaze. Raise her as if she were your own. Teach her our mother’s songs and our father’s kindness. Love her…as much as you can. With everything you can. Swear it to me, and you will have my trust.” 

Aili lets out a deep breath of her own, slightly exasperated with her own stubbornness, even though she knows in her heart of hearts that if their roles were reversed, she would make the same choice.

“I swear to do all that you have asked and more,” she vows solemnly, “Mealla will be loved and valued and cherished as long as I draw breath.” There is a brief flash of light as the bond seals between them and they share a weak smile, and a silent moment of understanding. “But…what can I tell her when she starts asking questions?” Aili wonders, “I don’t want to lie to her.”

“Tell her…that her parents loved her very much,” the other Aili answers hoarsely, “And we did everything we could to protect her.”

Aili nods once as she extends her arms out towards her counterpart, barely daring to take a breath as she passes her daughter to her with trembling hands. Tears start sliding down her cheeks as she looks down at the little face tucked safely in the blankets. A glance at the other version of herself confirms that her eyes are far from dry as well.

“I wish…there was more I could do for you,” she confesses, “I wish I could have gotten to you sooner.”

“You are saving my daughter,” the other Aili says, managing a weak smile, “That is more than enough. Although…”

“I will come back for Uthvir,” Aili promises, guessing her counterpart’s intent, “As soon as Mealla is secure. I won’t leave them behind to suffer at Falon'Din’s hands.”

“Thank you,” the other Aili sighs, her eyes sliding shut. “And…if the spell doesn’t wear off… If Mealla does not wake… Will you stay with me?”

Aili shifts the babe in her arms so that she can take the dying woman’s hand in her own once again.

“I will stay until you are sleeping.”

Her counterpart cannot seem to manage any more words, but she squeezes her fingers in gratitude. They sit together quietly for a few minutes, until Aili beings to hum softly. An old lullaby that her mother used to sing to her when she was very little. She wonders if Ina'then sang the same song to this version of herself. She thinks she must have, if the way she finally seems to relax is any indication, but perhaps it is simply that she does not have the strength to be tense any longer.

A few moments later, and her breathing stops. Chest still. Hand gone slack within Aili’s grasp. 

She looks down at the face that bears such a striking resemblance to her own. Grieving, but a strange, silent sort of grief that comes when looking at your own death. It is not something most of the immortal elves of Elvhenan have pondered over-much. The magic of this time is capable of healing almost any injury, and so long as one keeps clear of the Evanuris and their penchant for sacrifices, there is hardly a need to suspect that death may come at any moment. Torment and punishment, perhaps, but not death. Not a true ending.

But Aili has lived among mortals for hundreds of years while her own world was sundered by Fen'Harel’s Veil. She has seen the mask of death fall over countless faces. Young and old. Strong and feeble. Wicked and benevolent. There have even been a fair few scrapes where she had thought that death had finally come for her.

And now it has, in a way.

She folds her counterpart’s hand over her chest gently before reaching up to touch her face, frowning at the lines of ownership still branded there.

She settles Mealla gently on the floor beside her for a moment, needing both hands for the spell she has in mind. She could not heal the other Aili’s wounds, or stop the poison racing towards her heart, but she can give her this. A few whispered words and a gentle wave of light, and the brands are gone. The skin of her face as smooth and bare as that of her infant child.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” Aili says softly, gathering Mealla back into her arms and rising to her feet, “You are free at last, sister.”

~

Mealla does not being to stir from her magically induced slumber until Aili nearly has her almost all the way through the paths beyond the eluvian and back to the Hidden Estate, which is a relief in more than one quarter.

The more Aili considers the ramifications of what just happened and what she promised to do, the more she begins to panic internally. She does not have permission to be a parent from Mana'Din. She does not even have a petition for a child waiting around in some clerk’s office waiting to be signed. Her standing with the Evanuris is…complicated. She does not think she is evil or corrupt, in the same way that the rest of her family has become, but power does strange things to people, and Aili has done little to hide her disdain for her title. There is no reason to think that she would be permitted to keep Mealla as her child.

Especially not when there are so many others in the territory who would gladly volunteer to become parents. Perhaps Mana'Din might even ask Thenvunin and Uthvir to take on the responsibility. They are just as related to Mealla as Aili can claim to be, and they have already proven that they are capable of raising a child. Aili can see the logic of it, and she can concede that it would not be the worst possible outcome, as Uthvir, at least, would almost certainly let her visit as often as she wanted, but…

Mealla is _her_ daughter.

A child born from the love she shares with Uthvir. She cannot think that there was any other way she might have been created, even if it was not precisely intentional. It is an old dream that Aili had given up on long ago. To build a family with them and slowly watch some of their sharper edges turn soft. Deep fears that had been struck when they were new, eased into quiet murmurings by years of kindness and uncomplicated paternal devotion. After all they have suffered and sacrificed, it seems only fair that the universe should give them _something_ back.

But perhaps merely finding her Heart again in the ruins of Andruil’s palace and escaping the death of their world to reach this place is all the compensation they are slated to receive. It is certainly nothing to scoff at. And Vhenan… She knows that they would never harm a child when they were in their right mind, but there are days when they are not. When the darkness creeps into the space between their memories and they cannot quiet tell if Aili is their Heart or their Lady, and they are prone to panic. Lashing out, occasionally with violence. The few times Aili had _not_ been there when such a mood had struck them…it had not ended well.

She can see why someone might be reluctant to put them in charge of any sort of infant care.

Mealla chooses this moment in the scheme of Aili’s worrying to begin wriggling a bit in her arms, and it is not long before her new daughter is scrutinizing her with wide curious eyes. A darker violet than her mother’s, with a few stray flecks of blue. Aili holds her breath, waiting for a verdict, wondering if the child in her arms can tell that she is being carrying by a stranger.

For her own part, Mealla seems content enough to simply stare at her thoughtfully, unperturbed by the anxiety in her aura. She only begins to make sounds of grumbling dissent when she takes notice of the vast emptiness surrounding them, shifting around in her blankets until she has a free hand to clutch at Aili’s cloak and burrowing her face into her chest, seeking comfort. Aili’s heart makes a great stuttering leap, as though it might be about to escape her body, and any lingering shred of doubt about whether or not she should fight for the right to keep her baby promptly vanishes from here mind. 

She adjusts the furs and blankets around Mealla, as well as her own cloak, doing as much as she can to hide her from view, and hurries down the rest of the path towards Mana'Din’s eluvian.

Luck seems to be on her side as she enters the large room that holds the giant mirror, it is largely dark and there are only one or two sentries on duty. She had left at midday, but time can pass strangely in the space between, and in other worlds as well. It is clearly the middle of the night. No one was expecting her back this early, so no one will be looking for her yet, but the guards will not necessarily find it suspicious that she has come home so soon. There has been more than one occasion where missions had to be rescheduled or reassigned due to Vhenan’s condition.

Aili smiles at one of the guards in passing, but makes no other conversation, walking quickly and doing her best not to jostle the babe nestled beneath her cloak. Mealla makes a few small grumbles of protest, but they are already out the door and speedily making their way towards their private chambers. There are a few other small patrols milling about, but most of the Hidden Estate is quiet and still. Aili’s heartbeat is thundering in her ears, but she tries not to focus on what might go wrong.

She does not want to upset Vhenan before they even have a chance to meet their daughter. 

They are waiting for her just inside their rooms, ready to reset the wards on the doorway just after she slides inside and locks it behind herself. They still looking dark and somewhat sickly, but much more aware of their surroundings than they had been when they first came to the Hidden Estate. Their gaze is expectant, if a little muddled, and they seem to have a pack and weapons at the ready, in case the two of them need to flee. It’s not all that surprising, really, the feelings she must have been transmitting to them through their bond must have been a bit of a jumbled mess. Surprise and sorrow, anger and worry, wonderment and fear. The two of them have contingency plans for how to handle things if living here no longer seemed like an advantage, and she can’t fault them for suspecting that something big had happened. Something that would change their lives forever.

Aili swallows thickly, unsure of where to begin her explanation. Vhenan reaches out to her, brushing fingers over her cheek uncertainly as they let out a long breath. Seeing her standing before them in one piece seems to ease some of their tension, at least.

“You are unhurt?” they check.

“I’m fine,” she assures them, “I just…met someone, and unforeseen circumstances demanded that I return early.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at her, tilting their head slightly, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Maybe we should…sit down,” Aili suggests.

“Your cloak is moving,” Vhenan points out, seeming more curious than startled. Which is good.

“Yes… I brought someone back with me,” Aili begins slowly, trying not to sound as nervous as she feels. But there is a tingling excitement to her, too. And a few dangerous prickles of hope. “Someone who will need us to look after them. To keep them safe and protected.”

“Another halla?” Uthvir guesses, blinking at her again. Shadows rippling around them briefly in doubt. Aili would not need to bring a foal here unless it was very sick or very _very_ young. They seem to have pieced together that their speculation does not quite fit, but they cannot puzzle out why that might be. Tangled thoughts of Lady Andruil’s wife and her cold furies. Knives and hard tables and long calculating stares.

Uthvir trembles, just slightly, and Aili shifts the precious bundle in her arms so that she can reach for them. Calling them back to her with a single soft touch. They take in a sharp breath through their nose and close their eyes for a moment, grounding themselves again before looking back at her and offering an affirming nod, reassurance plucking softly at their bond. Aili beams at them.

“Vhenan, look who I’ve brought to meet you,” she says, pulling her cloak back slowly to reveal the tiny face of the baby still half asleep in her embrace. 

Mealla blinks her eyes up at them curiously, burbling a bit. Uthvir stares back in surprised silence. Aili holds her breath, trying to anticipate all the ways this could go badly and how to best deal with it if they do.

“We…made a baby?” Uthvir wonders, their brow furrowing. They extend a hand towards the child in Aili’s arms, nails going round with hardly a thought, before they pause and draw it back again. Their wings fluttering slightly in mild distress. “I…do not remember.”

“It’s alright, Vhenan,” Aili hastens to reassure them, “We didn’t really procure her in the usual fashion. You haven’t forgotten anything, this is the first time the two of you have met.”

“But she is _ours_ ,” Uthvir says with more confidence than she had been expecting.

Aili grins at them, unanticipated joy seeping out into her aura.

“She most certainly is.”

~

For almost an hour, there is nothing but tranquil delights. Aili sits on the couch with her Heart and shows them the proper way to hold the baby. They are a little nervous for a few seconds, but then something in them seems to settle. Mealla’s feelings are simple and her fears are relatively small. And for the moment, she seems content enough to be snuggled and fussed over and adored. Her new parents revel in the marvel of her existence. Happiness suffusing the air around them in a way that neither of them really thought they’d find again. Too many hurts and jagged edges. But their daughter is soft, and it is so easy to categorize their love for her. Shining light into corners of their hearts that have been dark and aching for so long.

A new beginning.

And then Mealla begins to cry. And a great many things seem to go wrong all at once.

Vhenan starts to panic, and the room is doused in shadows. Their daughter makes a startled yelp, and then begins to sob even harder, fear and confusion poured on top of general fussing. Aili finds herself caught up in the tidal wave of her littler family’s distress, and suddenly realizes that they have nothing to feed a baby in their rooms. No clothes to change her into. No toys or books or other entertainment meant for growing little minds. Not even a crib for her to sleep in.

A lump rises in her throat as her own fears start to seep out into her aura. If she requisitions something, people will get suspicious. They will ask questions. They will tell Mana'Din, and she will take Mealla away and place her in more capable hands. _Favored_ hands.

_Andruil is coming. She will come an take the baby. She will hurt her in order to hurt Uthvir. Again and again and again. Until nothing is left except for places that hurt._

Aili feels the thoughts more than she hears them, and her mind is brought back to the most current and pressing crisis at hand. She makes a dozen tiny motes of light, and sends them buzzing around the room like fireflies. Mealla’s eyes track the little specks of magic with interest, her unhappy wails tapering off into a soft discontented warbling, and then slowly transforming into wet-sounding hiccups.

Some of the shadows recede as the baby calms down a bit, the tension in Vhenan’s aura lessening ever so slightly at the thought that she is most likely unhurt. At least for now. They still look somewhat wild about the eyes, though. Ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

Aili hums to them, soft and low, stepping closer and linking her arm through theirs, pulling them up onto their feet and gently ushering them into their bedroom. She helps settle them on the bed, with Mealla still safely bundled up in their arms as they sit in a nest of blankets and pillows, and goes to set the wards over the room. They are safe in here. Even someone as powerful as Mana'Din would need a little time to get through all of their defenses.

Vhenan seems to realize this, too. Shoulders relaxing a bit more as they look at her and then back at the child in their lap. They still seem unhappy, though, and Aili does not have much in the way of comfort to offer at the moment. 

“Vhenan, I…I need to ask you to do something very important,” she begins. She does not want to scare them, but it is hard when she feels so afraid of it herself.

“We need to hide the baby,” they tell her matter-of-factly, “Lady Andruil will come for her. We should leave now, before she arrives.”

“The Andruil of our world is long dead, my love,” she reminds them gently, sitting down beside them and brushing a few locks of hair back from their face, “But…we did not ask Mana'Din’s permission to obtain a child. If she finds out…Mealla might be given to other parents. I doubt she would be mistreated, but she would no longer be ours. We might need to leave, if you think you can handle it. I would prefer not to, since the Healers here have been so helpful with your recovery, but… I don’t know what else we can do." 

Uthvir looks genuinely terrified for a moment, before looking down at the baby in their arms and seeming to find the wherewithal to avoid another meltdown. Their wings shiver and their form ripples as the tamp down on it, though. There is something like resignation on the face when they finally turn their gaze back to Aili.

"If you need to leave me behind…I would understand,” they tell her dolefully, “You should take the baby, and be safe.”

Aili blinks at them for a moment, stunned into temporary silence. But then she simply shakes her head at them, feeling the tears burning behind her eyes as she takes their face between her hands and kisses them soundly. Fierce and devoted.

“ _Never_ ,” she assures them breathlessly, “I would never abandon you, My Heart. You are all I have left of home, and I would rather tear out my own liver than be without you.”

“Please, do not do that,” Vhenan whispers back quietly, and there is, perhaps, a faint trace of amusement in their tone. Something that sounds a bit more like their old self. Aili snorts fondly.

“I will certainly do my best to avoid it,” she promises. “For now, I think the best we can do is try to keep a low profile. No one is expecting me to be back this soon, and we hardly entertain many guests in our chambers anyway. I will sneak out an gather what supplies I can when people are most likely to be asleep, and we can slowly build up a little stockpile of things for Mealla and add them to our own, in the event we need to make a hasty escape. While I am out, though…you would need to watch her. Do you think you can do that? For right now, it just means holding her and soothing her when she fusses, I will bring back food and formula and changing rags if I can get them, and then we can both just…figure out the rest. Together. What do you say?”

Uthvir nods in understanding.

“I will do my best.”

“It’s not really a good plan for anything long-term,” Aili admits, sighing in relief none the less, “But it will do for now. Stay in the bedroom and reset the wards as soon as I leave. Do not let anyone else inside. I will be back as soon as I can.”

Uthvir nods again, and she plants a soft kiss on their cheek, brushing her fingers gently through Mealla’s curls before getting off the bed and slipping back out into the night.

Things seem to go fairly well for about a week. There are enough small children in the camp at the estate that no one is apt to notice a few extra bottles of formula gone astray. The changing rags and baby clothes had been a bit harder to manage, but there are things like that in a few of the emergency store houses around the estate, just in case they get a large influx of unexpected refugees. Many of the items do not fit Mealla quite right, but it is more than she came here with, and the material is soft and in good condition. They fashion a little hammock for her in a small alcove in their room, possibly intended for a statue or a fountain at one point, and Uthvir even sews her one or two little oddly-shaped toys for her to mouth at.

But then agents begin to notice that Aili has not returned from her mission. An investigation is planned, and inquiries are made. One or two sentries have seen her, but she has filed no reports, and she has not shown up for any of her other duties. The rooms she shares with Uthvir are a bit secluded, but no one has seen either of them coming or going in days. Not to the mess hall, or the camp, or the Healers. When Aili is missing or in danger, Uthvir usually…has problems, but no one has heard form them either.

At first, they only knock on the door. When that does not seem to yield any results after a few days, they begin attempting to break through the wards. But Aili and Uthvir’s combined magic reinforcing them, makes it nigh impossible for the midranking overseers at the estate.

Aili almost opens the door when she hears Lavellan’s voice on the other side of it a few days later. She has not slept in what seems like ages, and Vhenan is becoming more and more agitated from the stress and the disruption in their scheduled meetings with the Healers.

“Aili?” the other Uthvir’s daughter calls, “Are you and Night okay in there?”

She does not answer, although she wants to. Mealla is fine for now, but the little stockpile she has gathered will not last too terribly long, and it is getting harder and harder for her to leave their rooms without being noticed. And she cannot leave at all when Vhenan is in their Deep Sleep, for fear that something might happen to the baby and they would not be able to wake up to care for her.

“…You know, if something happened, you can ask us for help,” Lavellan tries.

Aili wavers, just slightly, but then she looks down at Mealla, who has stuffed part of her toy into her mouth and makes a pleased gurgling sound at her, and her resolution solidifies. Lavellan is not cruel, but she is practical, and… Aili can concede that she might not be the best parent. She has never had the chance to raise a child before, she might be terrible at it. But Mealla is her only chance to try, and she loves her so much that the air around her is nearly vibrating with it, and… She can’t take that risk.

Lavellan would want to tell Mana'Din, who is her other self, after all, and Mana'Din would take Mealla away.

Lavellan makes a few more cajoling attempts to garner a response, but leaves in silence.

Four more days go by before the Uthvir who works as Mana'Din’s spymaster knocks on their door, and Aili is at her wits end. Their food is nearly gone, and Vhenan has been in a Deep Sleep for over a day. She is huddled up on the couch with her child, trying to think of some way to escape.

The sound of Uthvir’s voice on the other side of the door, so calm and collected, so much like they used to be when they first met, is enough to bring tears to her eyes. Part of her desperately wants to fling herself into their mercy. But the other part, the part that thinks they might be inclined to take Mealla back to Thenvunin and never let her see her Mamae and Nanae again, is absolutely petrified. 

“If something has gone wrong, you should tell me,” they tell her bluntly when she does not immediately respond, “If Lady Mana'Din herself has to come down here and pry your wards open, I suspect it will garner much more attention than you would like.” 

"…I _can’t_ ,“ she nearly sobs, "I _promised._ ”

“You can hardly keep any sort of promise if you starve yourself to death in your bedroom,” Uthvir points out.

"Y-you’re right,“ she sputters, her arms tightening marginally on the child in her arms, "But I…I don’t know what else to do. Vhenan needs help, and I can’t leave them, but if we stay…”

“…If I told you that I would offer my assistance, would you at least open the door?” they wonder.

“I'm…not certain you _can_ …” Aili trails off uncertainly, “Maybe…if you could get us out? It would be hard, but we might be able to make it out in the woods. Vhenan is better than they used to be and…”

Her voice tapers off, overcome by a sudden swell of sorrow as she thinks of the last set of parents that had tried to take Mealla and run. What might be happening to Mealla’s real Nanae even now as she sits here hiding in the dark. She is too exhausted to hold her emotions in check, and finds herself wracked with sobs and breathless, casting a hasty sleep spell over her daughter so that she does not begin to cry as well and give the secret away.

From the depths of her panic, she thinks she hears Uthvir let out a very deep sounding sigh. A few moments pass, and then there is a slight tug on the bond forged by Glory’s shard. It doe not feel quite like Vhenan; it is a much weaker connection. A faint echo of sameness with a tiny warm burst of reassurance. But it is enough to steady her breathing again.

“I cannot do anything for you, if you do not let me inside,” Uthvir tells her quietly.

Aili pauses for a few more seconds, still afraid, but even more fearful of somehow endangering the life of her child. She makes a gesture with her hand, dispelling the wards over the door from across the room, and huddles into a tight ball on the sofa. She knows she likely looks like a madwoman. Her hair is in disarray and her clothes have various baby-stains on them. She feels greasy and unkempt, and she’s certain that there are dark circles under her eyes.

Uthvir approaches her slowly, as though she is some sort of skittish animal likely to make a break for it, and she cannot deny that it is a fair assessment. The look they give her is one of deep concern. She trembles, fear and desperation mingling in her aura as she turns Mealla in her arms so that Uthvir can see her face.

“P-please,” she chokes out as the tears start up again, “ _Please,_ help me.” 


	6. The Roads Between Worlds

The space between worlds is dark and vast and quiet.

Aili knows there are things out there. Lurking in the void. The souls of the lost, as well as…other things. She can feel them. Even hear them sometimes, like the little whispery shadows that Vhenan calls to themselves whenever they feel threatened. It is hard to be afraid of the dark when your lover is the Nightmare.

It makes her think of the people who had been trapped in the Dreaming when Pride had raised his Veil. The people she had known and loved in the time that followed. Who had bloomed and withered and blew away like delicate puffs of smoke before her eyes.

She wonders if, perhaps, this is where all the previous inhabitants of destroyed worlds find themselves when everything collapses into itself.

She wonders if this is what really happens to you when you die. No more Dreaming. No settling in at the Maker’s side. Just one long stretch of unending black.

She wonders if she is about to find out.

It requires a lot of concentration and energy to create the pathways that Mana’Din showed her that link to new eluvians, but luckily for her, the way back to where she came from is usually a bit easier to manage. Even through frozen time and an endless chasm of nothingness, she can feel that slender golden cord of connection guiding her home. Faint, but persistent.

She tries to focus on it now. That distant heartbeat, glimmering like a far-off star. Drawing her onward even as her breathing rasps harshly in her ears. She clamps a hand firmly over her shoulder, applying pressure where her hastily made binding seems to have failed. She can feel the blood soaking through the fabric and wetting her fingers.

The blow did not manage to hit anything vital, at least. No major arteries or organs to worry about giving out on her. But it is deep, and losing too much blood could be…problematic. She is beginning to have a hard time moving her fingers on that hand.

Her left leg is not doing so well either, though she can still get along at a sort of wincing hobble. It is going to take the healers some doing to separate the charred ruins of her leggings from the somewhat melted skin beneath. She’s sure they can manage though. With all the wounds and maladies that the people in the estate show up with, the healers always seem to have their hands full.

She thinks there might also be a tooth embedded somewhere in her right forearm, but it hardly seems worth mentioning when compared to everything else.

There are eyes in the dark.

Aili can feel them pressing in around her, though she cannot be certain if they are moving closer to her, or if her spirit is beginning to seep from her body. Her world is dead, and perhaps they know that she is meant to be here. That she has cheated her fate somehow.

She hears a voice, muffled and unintelligible, and yet somehow…familiar. Beckoning. She finds herself wheeling about, too fast- and her leg gives out from beneath her. And she falls, heavy and sliding. Fingers scrabbling for purchase with her one good hand. A startled cry scraping out of her, echoes bouncing back at her from nowhere.

Her head and shoulders are hanging off the edge of the path when she manages to stop herself, and Aili stares down into the empty blackness of the void.

And the void stares back.

She is not afraid to die.

For half a second, she considers simply laying there, and letting whatever is out there in the dark whisk her away. Because she is so tired. And there is still blood seeping from her shoulder, and everything around her is getting just a bit blurry. And…she thinks the voice she heard sounded a little like her father.

Is he out there in the emptiness?

Is he waiting for her?

But…there are others. Other people waiting. Family. Her beloved. And her…daughter. She promised to keep them safe. To come back and belong to them as long as she is needed.

She still has work to do.

Very carefully, Aili makes her way to her hands and knees, inching her way along on all fours until she can work up the gumption to pull herself back up onto her feet. The world is spinning though, and she does not know how much longer her limbs are going to move as she directs them. Not long, if the trembling of her knees is any indication.

But it is not far now. The bright star of Mana’Din’s eluvian is shaped more like a doorway and less like a distant prick of light. The path is broader here, more sturdy from constant fortifications for the safety of frequent travelers. She does not know if she can make it all the way to her rooms, though.

Vhenan… No. No, they should not come. They should not see her like this. They will panic, and Fear will lash out, and everyone will be scared and the baby will be scared. She does not want that.

But she needs… She wants… _them_. A distant dream in red armor.

She reaches out, not even really thinking about it, and finds that other tiny spark of Glory. Harder to sense, but still there. Still them. She tugs at it gently, and feels it give a little shivering hum of reply.

Aili does not know precisely how she makes it through the eluvian. Her memory of the final stretch of her journey seems patchy at best. But when she staggers through that gilded frame and back into the Hidden Estate, Uthvir is there. With an extremely dubious expression on their face.

They still snatch her into their arms before she hits the floor though, which is nice of them.

“I wish you would find some other way of summoning me,” they note in a clipped tone, “The way you do it now is…disconcerting, to say the least. Convincing Thenvunin to stay in our quarters would have been impossible if we had not been looking after Mealla. He seemed to think that my sudden urge to take a stroll around the manor in the middle of the night was slightly suspicious.”

“M’sorry,” she murmurs thickly, “Next time I’ll write you a letter. Is there a particular stationary you prefer?”

“You are awfully belligerent when you are bleeding everywhere,” Uthvir comments dryly. 

“You should see the other guy,” she grins at them toothily.

“Oh?” they reply, arching a brow at her, “Am I going to be required to apologize to some local bully in another dimension whom you embarrassed in front of all his friends?”

“He deserved it,” she spits out.

“I am certain he did,” Uthvir agrees flippantly, getting their arms around her in such a way that they can begin slowly moving towards the doorway back into the main part of the manor.

“He’s dead,” she informs them. And there is something fierce and biting in her voice. A cold anger burning in her eyes as they look back at her in surprise.

“What?” they finally manage after a few moments of stunned silence.

Aili reaches up and lightly trails her fingers across their jaw, smearing ashes and blood in their wake. Her gaze is unfocused, and she’s swaying dangerously in their embrace, but she seems to be hanging onto consciousness in order to complete her thought. She tries for another smile, but it ends up looking more like a cross between a grimace and a wince.

She has to tell them. Vhenan should know. They should know she kept her promise. So that even if the healers cannot help her in time, they will still know and feel just the tiniest bit safer.

All she can see for the moment is their face. The face of her beloved. Her family. Her forgiveness. The person who knows her best.

“Vhenan… I killed him,” she mumbles out, even as the world around her fades into blackness, “Finally. _Finally_ … Falon’Din is dead.”


	7. The Portrait Incident

The Portrait Incident is something of a point of contention, for a few weeks.

The matter is this, so far as Lavellan understands it – Thenvunin wants to get a commissioned family portrait done of everyone. And he means _everyone,_ he wants himself, and Uthvir, and Lavellan, and Mealla and Aili, and the Other Uthvir. The last family portrait they had done was when Lavellan was a ‘child’, technically. After they had come into Mana’Din’s service. It’s still hanging back in their chambers in Daran, near to the front entryway.

And now Thenvunin is helping to parent another little girl, and he wants another portrait. And Uthvir – her nanae – is, of course, inclined to indulge him in having this. Lavellan’s pretty sure it’s residual guilt, but it means they’ve come down on his side of the argument.

The problem, though, is the _other_ Uthvir. Mealla’s Nanae, the one who survived centuries of untold abuse at Andruil’s hands, and fell in love with Aili, and was literally broken apart and pieces back together. They are not quite so stable, and not quite so good at making it through something like a sitting with an artist; and even if they _were,_ when they’re at their best, their physical similarities to Uthvir are undeniable. Coupled with their strangeness, the pool of available artists they can hire is limited. The Other Uthvir had themselves, on one of their more lucid days, just suggested being left out of it. But at the subsequent deluge of objections, they had countered that they might as well just get the artist to paint the same Uthvir twice.

Her Papae had _not_ been satisfied with that, however.

“You are Uthvir, but you two are not the same Uthvirs, not at all,” he had insisted. “It does not matter how similar you look, there will always be unique aspects to yourself that cannot make it through to the art without a proper sitting!”

That had sparked a new argument, which had then broken off into further discussion of which potential artist might be suitable for such a commission. Lavellan had done her best to try and moderate, being neither here nor there on the subject of portraits – she likes having the one of herself and her parents around, but she was older than Mealla when it was done, and she is of the opinion that waiting a few years might be wiser. The Other Uthvir is recovering, she thinks. She doesn’t spend much time with them – they get disoriented too easily, and don’t know her the way her Nanae does – but she’s seen more of them, in the past month or so. Heard more good news of them, from the people of the Hidden Estate.

They hunt, sometimes. With magic rather than weapons. Tracking deer and wild things in the thick wilderness, and bringing it back for the kitchens. Aili always goes with them, to make certain they don’t get lost or confused, but it’s a definite improvement.

Progress isn’t always on a linear track, of course, but if nothing else goes wrong – and she’s away of how perilous that ‘if’ could be – then they might be much better equipped to sit for an artist by the time Mealla is four or five.

“We are all her family!” Thenvunin insists. “She needs to know that we will _all_ be there for her!”

That seems to make an impact.

Not necessarily in a good way, either. The Other Uthvir gets that _look_ to them, then, caught somewhere between bristling and bewilderment. The shadows around the room rustle unhappily, and Aili steps in, then. Lavellan isn’t surprised when she shoo’s the rest of them away, after a few more minutes. The permanency of parental love is, she knows, an odd concept, when one has dealt so much with matters of alternate timelines and history. And probably especially where Mealla is concerned.

She suspects the matter will not resolve itself in Thenvunin’s favour.

She’s surprised, then, when a few weeks go by, and Aili asks her if she’d been willing to try and sit for the group portrait.

“There’s a new artist in the camp,” Aili explains. “His name is Aelynthi. Another version of himself is living in Arlathan, at the moment. He’s been recovering from losing his family. But he started painting again, recently, and he seems like a good fit for making an attempt. Vhenan’s condition doesn’t make him particularly nervous, and he doesn’t make Vhenan too wary, either.”

“Impressive,” Lavellan allows. The other two artists she knows they’d considered had both managed to get the Other Uthvir’s hackles up, though not necessarily through some fault of their own – being closely observed and examined is a normal part of portraiture, she understands, but it’s not something Mealla’s nanae is very well suited to.

Aili shrugs.

“I think it will fail,” she admits. “Even now, Vhenan is not good at being in a small room with so many people. Adding any stranger to that equation will probably upset them, but maybe it will be enough for Aelynthi to get what he needs. I will not let them be distressed by it, though. If Thenvunin wants a portrait so badly, he can get one without us in it, come to it.”

Lavellan shrugs.

“He means well,” she says.

Aili sighs.

“I know,” she admits. “And he has been through his own trials. It is a kind thing, to not want to exclude anyone. But…”

She shrugs, trying to encapsulate some of the complexities of their situation that are hard to put into words. There’s nothing really for it, Lavellan supposes. Alternate versions and universes and timelines, it creates circumstances for which there are few parallels. There’s nothing quite like meeting someone you know, who _isn’t_ actually someone you know. Especially when you’ve known them so well. She has a soft spot for Thenvunin’s alternate self in this world, that’s difficult to articulate. And her own feelings towards the Other Uthvir are complicated, too.

She thinks she met them, or rather yet another version of them, in her own time.

It’s hard to think on. Just like so many things. But in the end, she thinks it’s better to just… let them all be themselves, and go from there. Sometimes people look alike. Sometimes they live similar lives. Sometimes they evoke sentiments that aren’t really for them, and yet, are still _felt_ for them.

She goes to the portrait sitting, of course.

It doesn’t go well.

The room is a good one. In one of the palace’s interior gardens, where there is a lot of light but also a lot of walls. Mealla is fussy, though, and doesn’t want to settle in anyone’s arms. They end up taking a break to let her look at some of the garden plants and toddle around while Aelynthi focuses on the adults, but then she slips too close to a thorn bush and both Thenvunin _and_ the Other Uthvir lose their equilibrium, and the whole attempt is shot.

They make another one, two days later. Mealla is sleepy, this time, and settles more readily against Aili’s shoulder, and the Other Uthvir is relatively lucid and contained within themselves. They’re dressed in darker armour than the reds of Lavellan’s Nanae, while Thenvunin wears a set of his council robes, and Lavellan and Aili both dress in some of their nicer gear. Mealla is in a little white frock with pale blue flowers printed onto it. None of them really _match,_ though, and Aelynthi has them try out a few different arrangements; gradiating them from darkest to lightest clothing, at one point, and then putting them more into height order, and finally doing it by gender, before pursing his lips at them.

“No,” he decides.

Thenvunin looks like he wants to pick a fight about it, even though it’s just the one word.

“You said you could do this!” he objects. “Just what is so objectionable about my family?”

“Nothing, fundamentally,” Aelynthi replies, not the least bit cowed. “But it is not quite a family yet, is it? The relationships between the adults are too… messy. It shows. I could do it, still, a messy reality still has a lot to commend it in art. But that is not the goal of this project. You wanted this portrait for your daughter, you said? To reassure her? We will have to do something different, in that case. Or all it will show her is that she is the lynchpin holding most of you together, right now, and that is a lot of pressure to put on a child. It would create the wrong message.”

Thenvunin frowns, worried, but still somewhat miffed. Aili looks a little worried, too, but the Uthvirs both seem just slightly intrigued. After a few more moments of scrutiny, Aelynthi nods to himself and then tells everyone to get out except for Aili and Mealla.

“One at a time,” he decides. “It’s for the baby, so let it be _for the baby._ Five portraits, not one. _Much_ more work, but we can go over that later.”

He sounds like he’s talking to himself as much as to any of them.

But Lavellan thinks it is rather ingenious, as far as solutions go. The situation isn’t really as _simple_ as all of them just being there for Mealla. There are thorny connections between Uthvirs and Aili and Thenvunin, and herself, too, she supposes, and it’s not like there’s any hatred or malice drifting between their ranks. Not that she’s noticed, anyway. But it would be accurate, she thinks, to say that Mealla is the simplifying factor.

In the end, the Other Uthvir retreats back to their chambers, and Lavellan returns to her duties. Her parents are heading back to Daran in a week, for a few days of business. They’ve both taken a leave to help raise Mealla – things wouldn’t be feasible otherwise. The Other Uthvir wouldn’t do well in Daran, and if Thenvunin and Uthvir were still actively engaged in their duties, they would have to be away for months at a time. And missing months of Mealla’s life and development suits neither of them.

Lavellan is _not_ relieved of her own duties, however. And with Mana’Din finally acquiescing to participate in one of Andruil’s tournaments, her presence is needed. Especially since it seems unlikely, under the circumstances, that either Uthvir or Thenvunin will participate. It’s a delicate political situation, and adept combatants are a necessity for it – not to ensure a win, but to ensure that the territories place squarely in the middle. That takes a certain amount of finesse, and political awareness.

Secretly, though, she’s glad that Mealla means her parents won’t be going anywhere _near_ this world’s version of Andruil again. She doesn’t want them back under her eyes, back under her scrutiny.

She wants Andruil dead, in fact. And she’s not sure how much longer she’s going to be willing to play this game by her other self’s rules, even _if_ Mana’Din is more than a thousand years older than she is.

She thinks Aili would be onboard for that plan, too.

But it means that scheduling individual portraits takes a lot longer, especially since Aelynthi is very picky (and, she suspects, slightly frustrated with his own art), and has his own schedule to work around. The entire process takes several months, and the sittings for the Other Uthvir usually require Aili to be present, too, which is particularly exhausting for her. Lavellan honestly thinks they need to hire her someone to help with all of this – she does special missions for Mana’Din, and she looks after the Other Uthvir, and of course she spends as much time as she can with Mealla, but very little of that is actual down time.

Sometimes working hard, accomplishing things, helps keep the demons at bay. But becoming a child again, and then finally escaping Andruil’s clutches, forced Lavellan to just _stop_ in a way she hadn’t managed since she became Herald.

There is no one who can really substitute Aili for the Other Uthvir, though, and her missions through The Eluvian are something she chooses to undertake. So perhaps it’s more a matter of making sure there are plenty of people there to help catch her, should she inevitably burn herself out.

Sometimes that’s the only way it goes.

For all that there is no technical resemblance between them, there are days when Aili’s eyes remind her of Solas’.

Ancient elves backed into too many corners.

She’s almost glad, when the portrait comes, that Aelynthi chose to paint her with her eyes shut.

It is the first one finished, and a very stylized piece, in the end. Flowers and soft colours. Aili is dressed in an open robe, rather than her gear. Mealla is naked, and held close, and there is a serenity to their expressions that is a little breathtaking. The baby utterly at ease with her mother; the mother finding a kind of peace and contentment in holding her close. Their similarities are beautifully exemplified, not just in looks, but in a kind of indescribably theme that carries through the lines and shapes and the expressions on their faces.

_Peace,_ it says, and _safe,_ and _treasured._ The daughter is safe and loved; and the mother takes a breath, and feels the beauty of that.

Maybe, Lavellan thinks, she has been underestimating the impact which Mealla’s sheer existence has had on Aili.

The other portraits, as they emerge from Aelynthi’s little work room, are of a similar style and theme. Exemplifying the connection between Mealla and her caretakers. Lavellan almost feels as though she should bow out of the process. She is Mealla’s sister, of that there is no doubt or question, but she’s not… she hasn’t even taken a leave of a duties. She, herself, will be away for months at a time in a few weeks. Mealla might forget her, being so young.

But Thenvunin insists, and then everyone else does, and finally even the artist insists, telling Lavellan that if she compromises his vision _now_ then he will never forgive her. So she sits, with her little sister in her arms. Distracting her with a few soft toys, and some kisses, and even songs. Mealla loves being sung to. She likes her mother’s voice the best, but she will watch nearly anyone in fascination if they start to sing, and usually reach for their mouths, like she’s trying to figure out where all that _sound_ is coming from.

Lavellan is not a great singer, but she does well enough for a baby’s standards, it seems.

When the portrait is done, she’s surprised to see that Aelynthi has accomplished much the same effect all over again.

Mealla obviously has traits similar to both Uthvirs, and to her mother. For all that technically _none_ of them are related to her, by another set of technical standards, three of them are. And Thenvunin… does not _quite_ have a similar look to Aili, being so much taller and broader, but there are elements between them that are not so different, too. Uthvir’s tastes, most likely, having their say.

Lavellan is, by all measures, the furthest from her sister’s star. But Aelynthi has managed to turn their potential differences into a balancing act. Like the sun and moon.

And the series, when place all together, does seem to do precisely what Thenvunin wanted it to. Maybe even better than the group portrait would have. There’s something to be said for a group portrait, Lavellan thinks, and again, maybe it’ll be worth trying for in a few years. It’s good for people to know that their caretakers will help one another, too, that love is not an exclusive event. But for the purposes of reminding some future Mealla of how many people care for her, and will strive to be there for her… having them _all_ holding her, so close and so careful in each image, is amazing.

Thenvunin sets up the portraits in his and her Nanae’s palace chambers, just down the hall from where Aili and the Other Uthvir sleep, in the main room. Lined up, the effect is obvious. Mealla herself stares at the paintings from her Papae’s shoulder, and then finally seems to decide she likes them. She points at them, reaching a little hand towards the familiar faces, and babbling a bit. Thenvunin has to keep her from getting drool on the canvases, but after a little bit Mealla seems very excited to try and match everyone to their image; pointing at them, and then the paintings, and earning enthusiastic praise each time.

“Of course she is pleased,” her nanae jokes. “She got _five_ entire portraits of it, and she looks utterly adorable in each one.”

“Making her look adorable was probably the easiest part,” Aili claims, but she seems surprised with how pleased she is about it, too.

They are good portraits, Lavellan thinks.

Her gaze drifts towards the one of herself, holding her sister. Holding a little baby.

If she feels a pang of longing for something, even so, she decides not to put a name to it.


	8. Little Heart

The Uthvir of this world is very young.

Aili has been visiting this place for nearly three months, alternating between here and her new home at the Hidden Estate with Vhenan and baby Mealla. She is still getting used to the idea of sharing them both with other people, with other lovers and children who have come to care for Uthvir, and other parents who seem determined to love her daughter. It is not as easy as she might have expected, though. She is too used to losing things she cares for to relinquish them into other hands without a good deal of reluctance. And Vhenan does not do very well if she is gone for much longer than a few days together, either.

Still, there is work to be done. Here, and in the refugee camp, and a dozen other worlds where tyrants treat their followers as little more than fodder for their power and toys for their amusement. There is more than enough guilt left in her heart for her role in the destruction of her own world, however small it may have been, that she will not allow herself to sit idly by when others might be suffering.

As this Uthvir does, now.

When Aili had first snuck into this version of Andruil’s summer palace, she had thought this might be another world like Mana'Din’s, where her heart had never been created. But then she had overheard a few of the chattier lower ranking hunters discussing Falon'Din’s lingering rage over the loss of his coveted general, Glory, and she had known that if they were not here yet, they would be soon.

Further investigation had led her deep into the bowels of the palace. Down near the dungeon and the treasury and other more secure rooms for ‘projects’ and ‘precious oddities’ might need to be stored safely away from most prying eyes. To a special pen made of transparent barriers so that its occupant’s behavior might be observed. And a small golden figure chained to the floor within it.

Aili almost hadn’t recognized them. A face from her dreams. From nightmares about Falon'Din’s hands and Ghilan'nain’s cold cruel eyes. Blades and bindings and pain.

Not things that she is typically keen to remember.

The little things add up, though. The sound of their voice. The way they hold their head when they nod at someone. The shape of their hands and ears.

She has known Uthvir, in various incarnations of themselves at this point, for hundreds of years. And she has met Glory once or twice in passing on her journeys. But this is someone new. Someone in between the two halves of themselves. Someone scared and resigned, and troublingly docile.

It has taken a long time for an opportunity to speak with them to present itself. It is late at night, and all of the project managers who usually keep an eye on them have gone to bed, though likely not beyond hearing. Andruil is out on a hunt, and the palace is only sparely populated.

She comes to them as a plump little meadowlark, fluttering about in the crossbeams of the ceiling.

“Who is there?” they whisper up at her hesitantly, “My…Mistress Andruil said that no one was to use me while she was on her hunt. If she comes back to find this body has been damaged, she will be most displeased.”

Aili winces internally, both at their words and their tone. She hops about on her perch for a few more indecisive moments before flitting down to the floor beside them. There is not much in their cell. A simple cot and a place to use the restroom. A thin blanket and a self-cleaning wash basin. The chains on their limbs allow enough room to walk around a little, but not so much that they might touch the barriers that make up their prison.

“I am not going to hurt you,” she assures them softly, “I just want to talk.”

“Talk?” they blink at her curiously with vivid blue eyes, “What about?”

“About you, mostly,” Aili tells them honestly, “And your life here.”

“I…am not certain I am permitted to speak to you,” they reply worriedly, “Are you one of My Lady’s hunters? …Or a spirit, perhaps? I know what I am, but Lady Ghilan'nain still crafted this body well enough to see that you are not a bird.”

“I imagine that the talking gave it away as well,” she answers with a light snort. “I am…a friend. Who happens to look like a bird, for now. My names is Aili.”

“I have never had a friend,” they tell her matter-of-factly, “Not even one that looked like a bird. It is not this body’s purpose.”

“And what is your purpose?” Aili wonders quietly.

“To serve Lady Andruil,” they say, as though it should be obvious, “To be pleasing to look upon and warm her bed when she has need of it. To ensure that she is…happy.”

“And are _you_ happy?” Aili presses.

“I…am a gift,” they tell her, sounding a bit uncomfortable, “A thing cannot be happy or unhappy, it is beyond the scope of what a construct is meant to be. As you can plainly see, I have no aura around me. No emotions. The Lady Andruil has been…magnanimous. She only shares me with her highest-ranking followers, and no one else is permitted to damage this form in any way. She protects me. It is more than I expected or deserve.”

Aili feels a lump welling up in her throat, and a strong desire to hold them in her arms. She expects that it would be received as more of an attempt to force physical intimacy on them than a comfort, though, and she would not put them through that. When she speaks next, her voice is thick and wobbly.

“Do you have a name?”

“Lady Andruil…calls me, ‘Pet’,” they say doubtfully, “I do not think she would like other people to call me that, however. Most call me what I am.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to call you any of the names I’ve heard them use around here,” Aili says sourly.

“You are free to call me what you like, of course,” they reply with a respectful inclination of their head.

“I’d rather call you by something _you_ like,” she tells them with a sigh.

“I…do not have leave to choose a name for myself,” they say, nervously shifting around a bit, “Proper names are for People.”

“You could pick one anyway,” Aili suggests, “It could be a secret. You wouldn’t have to tell anyone what you picked.”

“Why should I have a name if no one would use it?” they ask.

“Because it would be yours,” she explains gently, “And because, as you said, People have proper names.”

“But I…am not a Person,” they remind her, “I am a body. I am an empty doll that happens to move ad speak.”

“And empty body is a corpse, Da'vhenan,” Aili tells them firmly, “Your blood moves through your veins. Your lungs breathe. Your mind thinks. You are _alive_. And you are a Person, real and whole.”

“Da'vhenan?” they say curiously, tilting their head in slight confusion.

“An endearment for a child,” she says, “Because you are young and sweet, and still learning what you are.”

“Lady Ghilan'nain told me what I am,” they reply uncertainly, “She said that-”

“She lied,” Aili cuts them off, “Just as Andruil lies. They tell you these things to control you, Little Heart. But you do not need to believe them.”

“Who should I believe, then?” they wonder, furrowing their brow.

“You should trust your own instincts,” Aili tells them, “And you can trust me too, although that might be a tall order right now.” 

“I doubt that Lady Ghilan'nain built me to have instincts,” they admit with a sigh.

“Instincts must be honed,” Aili says, hopping a little closer and rustling her feathers a bit, “A baby does not know how to walk when it is first born. It does not know its name or how to ask for what it wants from life. It learns these things with time, just as you will.”

“I am not a baby. At least, I do not think I am. I do not know much about them, but my general understanding is that they are very small and grow bigger with time and good foods to eat. And this body is not meant to be other than it is now,” they point out, “How can you be certain I could do those things?”

“Because I have seen others like you achieve it,” she tells them simply. Telling them the whole of their history and just how much she knows about them seems like it would be overwhelming. She does not want to frighten them, or make them feel as though there is only one course their life could possibly take. All she’s interested in is gaining their trust, for the moment, and testing the waters about potentially taking them back to the Hidden Estate with her.

“You have met other constructs?” they ask, their eyebrows rising in surprise, “And they became real People?”

“They were always real people,” Aili corrects them, “Just as you are.”

They make a face at her, confused and disbelieving.

“You look as though you would like to argue,” she notes, distinctly amused.

“I would never dare to presume to correct you,” they hurry to assure her, nodding their head in a respectful bow, “And I… I would not be displeased, if what you said was true. Maybe it is true for the other constructs you have met. But there is no way to be certain it will be true for me. Lady Ghilan'nain was very… _thorough_ in her inspection of this form and the range of its capabilities.”

“I would like to help you, if you’ll let me,” Aili tells them softly, finally flitting up to sit beside them on their thin little cot, “I would like to prove to you that she is wrong.”

“How would y-” they begin, before a quiet sound interrupts them. They’re eyes widen, surprised and concerned.

“Is that humming?” Aili wonders, cocking her head slightly and looking around for the source of the noise, “Why is your bed humming?”

They do not answer her immediately, but the fear in their expression is telling enough.

“It’s alright,” she promises, “You aren’t going to be in trouble with me. I know how to keep secrets. May I see it?”

They hesitate for a moment more, but then seem to decide either that they trust her, or that they have no other choice but to obey. They nod their head once and slide their hand beneath the thin mattress on their cot. Unearthing a folded piece of fraying fabric and holding it out to her.

Aili knows what it is before they even open it. She can feel a familiar resonance prickling within her chest. Even so, she cannot help the breath that escapes her when they reveal what looks to be a tiny fragment of starlight, glowing softly and pulsing in time with her heart.

“The shard of Glory,” she breathes.

“Yes,” they admit, still sounding a bit nervous, “I kept it, even though I was not supposed to. It is sundered, so I did not think it would be… But I’ve never seen it act like this before…”

“It’s because I am here,” Aili tells them.

“Are you a spirit of Glory?” they wonder. Aili laughs.

“No, not in the least,” she twitters, “But I was given a shard like that…a long time ago. To keep me safe.”

She sees their hands tighten on their treasure ever so slightly.

“Never fear, Da'vhenan,” she reassures them, “I have no intention of stealing from you. One spark of Glory was more than enough.”

“I…I am not certain that explains why it might react to you,” they admit.

“It probably doesn’t,” Aili agrees, “But that is a very long story, and I doubt there is time for it tonight.”

“Does that mean that I will be permitted to speak with you again?” they wonder.

“I certainly hope so,” Aili begins, “There is-”

But her thoughts are interrupted by a desperate tugging at some bright place beneath her ribcage. Uthvir is having some sort of episode back in Mana'Din’s territories. A bad one.

_Vhenan? Vhenan, come back. Come **back**._

They are confused. Panicked. Nerves raw and jangling. And there is no one who can help them when they get like this. No one except her.

“I…I must go now,” she says apologetically.

“I shall patiently await your return,” the not-quite-Uthvir replies with a respectful dip of their head.

“Or…you could come with me?” Aili suggests, “Right now. Tonight. If you come with me, you will be free to choose a name for others to call you, and a new path for yourself. And I will personally ensure that no one harms you.”

“But…what about my Lady Andruil?” they ask doubtfully, “She has bid me stay here until she returns. She would be most displeased to find me gone. I…I do not wish to seem ungrateful for all she has done for me.”

“Let her _rot_ ,” Aili snaps, making them flinch. She softens again at their discomfort, though some of Uthvir’s anxiety is beginning to bleed through into her own senses, setting her mind on edge. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. But the place I come from is…very far away from here. Another realm, only accessible to those who know the right paths and doorways to seek. Andruil might be upset, but you would be beyond the reach of her ire. You would never have to obey her wishes again.”

“Your world sounds like a wonderous place indeed,” they tell her quietly, without nearly as much skepticism as she had anticipated, “But serving Lady Andruil…is what I am for. If she wishes for me to stay, how can I leave?”

“By choosing to do something you want, instead of what you think would please her,” Aili supplies.

“I…am not certain I can do that,” they confess, brow furrowing in mild confusion.

Aili decides to relent, for now. She supposes that all of this is likely a bit overwhelming to take in all at once, and unfortunately, she does not have the time to ease them into the idea. Vhenan needs her.

“I will come back,” she promises, “I will come back as quickly as I am able. Take your time to consider things. You can come with me then, if you like. I only want you to have a chance at happiness.”

“Happiness…” they echo faintly, “Then…I shall wait. And consider, as you have bid me do. I…hope that I may speak with you again soon.”

“So do I,” she replies, sending a little curl of affection towards them before flitting back up into the rafters and out of sight.

~

But Aili does not come back as soon as she had hoped. Not in a few days, or even a few weeks. Vhenan’s upset is lingering, and they do not want her far from their sight. They attempt to persuade her that they can handle it if she has to leave again, but she can feel the worry prickling beneath their words. A thousand nameless fears; and a few that are less nebulous. They do not want her to die again, to abandon them, to be someplace beyond where they can protect her if she needs it. They do not want to wake to find another world without her.

Mealla is also doing her level best to figure out how to stand up on her own. To form words that have meaning, and take her first steps. Aili would rather eat her own liver than to risk missing that.

There are other agents who travel through the Eluvian at the Hidden Estate to explore other worlds, of course. She asks them to check in on the young Uthvir’s world when they can, but not to get too close. Her relationship with this Uthvir is tenuous at best, and Andruil’s Palace is not a place that is easily infiltrated by someone who has not been inside it before. She thinks that Lavellan would go if she asked her, but Thenvunin and her Nanae would never forgive her if something happened and their daughter fell back into the Huntress’ clutches.

She could scarcely forgive herself.

By the time everything is sorted and settled at home, more than a month has passed. Aili feels herself burn with guilt as she finally makes her way back through the maze of paths that connect Mana’Din’s world to so many others and emerges once more in Andruil’s territory. Wondering to herself if forcing them to come with her somehow would have been a lesser crime in the long run, rather than leaving them to whatever miseries they much have endured in her absence.

The huntress is here this time, which makes infiltration more difficult, but not impossible. The palace seems as though it is readying for yet another hunt, likely one that will not take them too far out into the surrounding woods, as only a few hunters seem to be making the necessary arrangements. There are hunts nearly every day, of course. For food to fill the larders, and to keep beasts from growing bold enough to simply wander onto the palace grounds. Andruil does not usually participate in these ‘lesser’ ventures, as she considers them far beneath the level of her skills, but she is rarely happy unless she has killed something, and there is not always something fearsome enough to suit her whims available for slaughter.

The hunt Andruil is to attend is set for very early the next day, and so most of the palace turns in early. Most of the lower ranking hunters seeing this as a rare chance to impress their lady, and none of them wanting to lose their chance at glory over something as stupid as sleep deprivation. The servants are still milling about, of course. Cleaning things and preparing the breakfast so that their will be something on hand for whatever odd hour their Lady decides to head out into the wilderness.

They do not take much notice of a little songbird fluttering through the rafters. It is not uncommon for some sort of wild animal to wander into the palace every now and again. They usually end up as sport for whatever bored hunter happens to spy them first. But Aili knows these halls well enough to keep largely out of sight, drawing her emotions tightly within herself to attract the least amount of attention possible.

When she finally makes it down to Uthvir’s cell, they are curled into themselves on their cot, their thin blanket pulled about them tightly. They are making a soft warbling noise, muffled by their sheets, and it takes her a few moments to realize that they are crying. Uthvir is crying in the dark, all alone.

For half a minute she is frozen with indecision. Half of her heart is begging her to fly down into they’re little cage and gather them into her arms until they feel safe again, and the other half is filled with a white hot fury. A righteous anger that wants her to storm back up through this wretched place and bloody every single person who might conceivably have harmed them.

She is much stronger than she used to be, however, she doubts that she could take out Andruil and all of her ranking hunters on her own. Not without some sort of better plan than, ‘hit them until they stop moving’, at any rate.

Uthvir and their pain come first, as always. The others can wait.

“Are you alright?” A stupid question that she already knows the answer to, but the first words the can think of that aren’t tinged with her fury.

They tense reflexively, pulling the covers even more firmly around themselves as some kind of makeshift shield, momentarily shocked from their tears. Their eyes dart around the room for a few seconds, searching.

“…Aili?” they wonder in a hoarse whisper, “Is that you?”

She flutters down from the ceiling and lands a little ways from their cot. She shifts her weight around a bit, hopping to and fro. Wanting to be closer to them, to offer physical comfort, but not wanting to startle them either.

“Yes,” she replies, her voice rife with regret, “And I am so sorry I did not come back for you sooner. I did not think I would be delayed for so long. Are you hurt? Do you need healing?” 

They shake their head at her, still visibly distraught. Their breathing seems to have calmed a little, but there are still tears rolling down their cheeks. They do not move from the relative safety of their blankets.

“Would…would it be alright if I checked you over myself?” she asks hesitantly, “Nothing invasive, I promise. Just a little healing magic, that’s all. And you can ask me to stop whenever you want.”

They consider for a moment before giving her a single slow nod of agreement.

“I’ll need hands for this, so I’m going to change my shape,” Aili tells them, not wanting to alarm them with any sudden spells or movements. She shifts back into an elf once they give her another nod in the affirmative. They seem a little bit in awe afterwards.

“I think…if I could be a bird, or some other animal, I would hardly ever stay in my elf shape,” they confess quietly, “I wish I could have wings.”

“Perhaps someday you will,” she smiles at them, slowly moving closer to their bed and sitting down beside it, “I was not always very good at shifting my form. It took many years of practice. And there are still some shapes that I cannot hold onto very easily.”

“I did not mean to imply that I prefer _you_ as a bird, of course,” they hurry to assure her, “You are very… Very nice. In this shape. As well as the other one.”

She laughs at that, covering her mouth to muffle the sound so as not to draw any unwanted attention from their handlers sleeping in the rooms nearby.

“I am pleased you approve,” she grins at them. They look a bit confused by her response, but they manage a weak smile in return.

Slowly, Aili moves one hand over them, not touching, but close enough to make them flinch, regardless. She offers a soft apology before summoning her magic. It is a healing spell, but she reaches out for the faint trace of Glory within them too, checking for wounds and soothing them as she goes.

They let out a deep breathy sigh. She smiles at them and brushes some of the hair back from their face. Reaching out with a wispy curl of affection and reassurance.

“Will you tell me what happened since I went away, Da'vhenan?” she wonders.

“My lady…has grown weary of me,” they admit hesitantly, not meeting her gaze, “It is only natural. I was going to be…disposed of. I begged to be allowed to serve her in some other capacity, if I could no longer please her physically. At first…she refused, but I was ardent. I know I could be useful if she let me. She was gracious. She gave me mercy. She said… She said that if I could find a spirit of my own, if I could make myself enough of a Real person to pass as one of her followers, then I could stay here and serve her.”

Their eyes finally turn towards her, wide and terrified.

“B-but I…I have not been able to capture a spirit,” they continue, voice breaking as tears well in their eyes again, “I did my best to lay traps. I left the shard of Glory there to tempt them… But they do not come. They can see how I am wrong and empty, and they stay away. Lady Andruil is losing patience, and I… I do not _want_ to die! Falon'Din keeps the dead, and I cannot go back to him. Not ever. I can’t. I _can’t!_ ”

They break down into sobs again, and Aili gathers them in her arms without thinking. Stroking their hair and hushing them, swaying back and forth slightly. Rocking them, as she does with Mealla when she has suffered from nightmare or injury. At first, they are stiff against her, tense, but not struggling, passive in the face of unexpected comfort. But as time passes, they slump into her embrace. They do not hold her back, but perhaps they do not know how to. She hums to them, and their crying fades into occasional whimpers and then down to a sniffle here and there.

When they seem to have calmed down again, she lets them go. Their eyes are swollen, and their face is flushed, and they seem very confused. She does her best to be gentle. She does not want them to think this is some sort of weird come-on. 

“You don’t have to be afraid of Andruil or Falon'Din ever again,” she promises, “We can leave this place together, and you can have whatever kind of future you want. I’ll help you get anything you need, you just name it.”

They squirm a little. Nervous and uncertain.

“Would I… Would you be my new lady, then?” they wonder, “Am I to serve you, instead?”

“You would have no master or mistress, if you do not want one,” Aili asserts, “Technically, I _do_ serve an evanuris, but she is…different. She does not force people to bend their knees. You would not have to take her vallaslin unless you wished to.” 

“But I still do not have a spirit,” they point out, “The people in your world…would they not see how I am empty?”

“Just because your emotions do not create a typical aura does not mean you do not have them,” she reminds them, “You are not empty, or wrong, or broken. You are just…built differently than most elves. There are other people like you. Other races who do not project what they feel into the air. You would hardly be an oddity. If you wanted to live somewhere beyond Mana'Din’s territories, we might have to find a solution that involved asking a spirit to bond with you, but for now you do not have to change anything about yourself. You are enough all on your own.”

They stare at her for a long minute. Considering. This might be one of the first decisions they have ever made in their life, and she can almost see the wheels turning in their mind. Wanting things, and being afraid to want them, and being terrified to leave what they know and understand in the hope of finding something better. And feeling just how small that hope might actually be.

A single tear slides down their cheek.

“I do not want to die.”

Aili reaches over and gently wipes the dampness away with the pad of her thumb.

“Then I will keep you from harm,” she promises. She glances around their cell for a moment, frowning. “Breaking your cage will be…noisy. You cannot change your shape yet, and while I am confident in my skills, fighting off an entire palace full of hunters would be…difficult. We’ll need some sort of distraction to ensure almost no one comes to investigate your disappearance. At least until we can get outside.”

“What kind of distraction?” they wonder.

“Big,” Aili replies, a wide devious grin spreading on her face, “The sort that would _definitely_ keep Andruil out of our way.”

~

The woods are quiet in the morning.

The paths are a little different than the ones she used to take with her Uthvir, back when they were both young, and the world had seemed more…permanent. As if things could only ever be as they were, forever.

In some ways, that world had been less painful. She did not carry the guilt she bears now, and her heart had been…whole. But her new life has more purpose. More direction and meaning. She still has Uthvir, and they have her, and they both have their daughter. She would not trade that for anything.

Aili follows Andruil and her hunters out beyond the boundaries of the palace. Past the wards that would set alarms off if something large and unexpected might stray too close. They are not so far out that they could not send for help if they found they needed it, but there is enough distance to take advantage of, so long as she is careful.

She shifts between shapes as she needs to. Flitting from branch to branch as a lark. Softly padding along through the shadows as a fox. She holds her emotions tight within herself. Her aura will still be noticeable if she gets too close, or draws attention to herself, but there is little worry of that. Even with the slightly altered pathways, she knows these woods. She knows the trees and the landmarks and the scent of the air. She lived here for hundreds of years. With Andruil’s finest hunter to teach her every trail and river and stone. Every place where runes might be placed, and traps might be laid.

The party is small, and a few of them break off completely to check on snares set out days ago. Only three or four remain with their lady, and even they give her space as they all move off the roads and into the trees. Too many people close together will frighten off most prey animals, regardless of how quiet they manage to be. And the great huntress hardly needs assistance with something as simple as a hart or a common boar.

If the true object was food, the wiser course would be to go to one of their outposts in the forest and wait for the prey to come to them. But Andruil has never been one for patience. Not when there is blood to be spilt.

And for once, Aili agrees.

She begins with the ones hunting farthest away from their mistress. She takes them cleanly. One by one. With only the pop of crackling bone and sinew and a muffled gasp against her palm. It is as quick and painless as she can make it, although whether they deserve such mercy is another question. But Andruil would notice the scent of blood in the air, or the sizzle of magic.

The last one is the most difficult. They seem to have sensed that something else is in the woods with them. Something a bit more threatening than a typical meadowlark or a fox. It makes them watchful. Wary. 

They see her before they die. It is not enough to save them, but it is enough to make them utter a startled cry that beckons their lady to come searching for the source of all the ruckus. If she is surprised or upset at the discovery of her follower’s corpse, she hides it well.

“Well, well, perhaps today’s hunt will not be as dull as I anticipated,” she hums thoughtfully, rolling the body of her fallen hunter over with the toe of her boot. Casually inspecting them for wounds. Trying to parse out how they had been slain. 

Aili had managed to fly up into the trees before she arrived at the scene, but now that Andruil is aware of the potential danger, it will not take her long to sense her presence. Muted emotions hardly deter her from killing other animals, after all. She only has a few moments to act; surprise is crucial. If Andruil realizes just exactly what she is up against and has time to brace herself for it, Aili’s chance for success will drop exponentially.

As quick and quiet as she can, she begins to twist her shape. It is a form she does not use very often. She prefers to be small and silent, and this is…rather the opposite. Her teeth grow long and sharp as swords, and her skin ripples with a million tiny scales. Cream and gold and violet.

The huntress’ eyes catch a flash of them, and she turns to meet her foe head on, but Aili is already lunging out of the trees. Only half way shifted into her new shape, but already three times her normal size, and growing larger by the second. She feels the bite of a dagger sink deep into her gut. She growls in pain and fury and triumph.

Andruil might have landed a hit, but Aili’s teeth are buried deep in her throat.

The woman struggles. Hits her. Burns her with magic. Stabs her a few more times for good measure. And does her best to find the presence of mind to change her own form to match the one of her assailant.

But it is not enough. Aili is small for a dragon, but she is more than large enough to crush an elf beneath her weight. Once she has shifted completely, Andruil is tiny in her jaws. She might be singed and bleeding, but all she has to do is hold on until the huntress stops moving. All she has to do is endure Andruil’s wrath, as Uthvir had endured, until she has a victory.

When Andruil makes a real effort to change her shape though, there is no more time for waiting. Aili clamps her jaws together as hard as she can, twists her neck slightly, and _pulls_. Blood gushes down her throat, enough to make her want to wretch and gag, but she does not yield until she is certain. Until her nemesis has gone still and silent. 

There are not too many physical wounds that will kill an elf with the sort of power that most of the Evanuris wield, but Aili is willing to bet that Andruil is unlikely to recover from that one.

Never the less, she burns the body afterwards. Just to be certain.

~

When she gets back to the palace that evening, everything is in uproar. As planned.

She is moving slowly, and she is tired, but her wounds are largely healed, and between the chaos and the secret passages Uthvir had shown her years ago, she makes her way through the estate virtually unseen. It had not taken them long to find the bodies of their Lady and her entourage once they had been missed. Aili had not bothered to hide them. The fact that there had been no marks on the hunters was baffling enough, but there had been signs that their lady had fought a _dragon_. And whether that means some rogue Keeper had emerged from hiding, or one of the other Evanuris had turned on her, or some new elf had discovered how to take the beast’s shape… None or those options are good.

They scramble for leadership. Andruil had always kept them at each other’s throats. There is little love lost between them, and almost no trust to speak of at all. Aili would be concerned about one of them trying to maim Uthvir or herself out of hand if they were not so busy trying to kill each other instead.

Uthvir’s dungeon is deserted by the she gets there. They are sitting ramrod straight on their cot, listening anxiously to the sounds of screams and shouting from above. They visibly relax once they see her though.

“What did you do?” they wonder, eyes wide with awe.

“Oh, you know,” Aili pants, grinning at them with an aura of deep satisfaction, “Got in a bit of a fight with one or two of them. Broke some bones. Singed some skin. Nothing fancy.”

“And that was all it took for allof them to turn on each other like that?” they reply, clearly dubious.

“Cover your ears,” Aili tells them, “I’m going to smash the barriers holding you. I would prefer to undo the spells quietly under normal circumstances, but we have no time. It will be loud.”

They do as she asks, and she gathers what is left of her strength and focuses it into her spirit blade. It is as powerful as her will, and her will to set them free is indomitable, even now. A single stroke, and the barrier shatters around them. The sound of it clanging through the chamber like a maddened oxen on a rampage. Aili staggers to her knees and they try to come to her. To help her get up. But they are still chained to the floor, and their manacles do not reach far enough.

It takes her a minute to regain her composure, and she can see the concern written on their face.

“It’s alright, Da'vhenan,” she assures them, as she walks over and begins to undo the spellwork on their shackles. She cannot break those with force for fear of injuring them in the process, “I’m just a little worn out, that’s all. I’ll get you out of here, and we’ll go home. Where we can both get some proper rest on something infinitely more comfortable than that cot.”

“Will I…be taking my rest with you?” they ask hesitantly, “In your bed?”

“You can if you like,” she smiles at them, “Although, _all_ that will be taken there is rest. We both need sleep after all of this. And I imagine that finding you your own quarters will not take too much time. You may come and see me as often as you like, of course.”

The chains snap from their wrists, and Aili takes their limbs in hand, rubbing them gently to stimulate blood flow. 

“Am I not…” they begin, sounding confused, “Do you not find me pleasing?”

“You are lovely,” she promises, reaching up to touch their cheek, “And more dear to me than you can fully understand right now. But we can't… Anything physical between us could not happen for many years, if it happened at all. You would need to know more about the world. About consent, and your own desires.”

“But…if you do not want me in your bed…I do not know what else I am for,” they admit, sounding a bit scared now, “When Lady Andruil no longer found my company pleasurable, she was ready to have me killed. What will become of me if I have no…no purpose?”

“You will find a new one, with time,” Aili assures them, taking them by the hand and leading them back towards the exit, “I can help you, if you like.”

They are quiet for a few minutes, letting her tug them along through hallways and hidden tunnels until they are out in the open air, under the moonlight.

It is only then that they seem to realize that Aili is covered in quite a lot of blood. Splashed all down her front and staining one leg of her pants. Smeared across her neck and jaw. They shiver slightly.

“What if my Lady comes for me?” they whisper to her beneath the shadows of the trees.

“She won’t,” Aili promises.

“But how can you be certain?” they press.

Aili stops for a moment to look back at them, the air around her crackling with lingering fury and righteous triumph.

“Because Andruil is dead,” she tells them defiantly, “I killed her myself. To cover our escape, and as justice for all she has done to you. And to others. And for all she might have done. The world is better for it, I have no doubt. And now she can never touch you again.”


	9. Little Heart 2

Pet goes with Lady Aili back to her world.

It is not an easy trip. They must pass through an eluvian to get there, and the one which Lady Aili determines to use is in an outpost of Andruil’s. Pet does not think that she is lying to them when she says that she killed Lady Andruil. There is a great deal of blood on her, and power crackling at her edges, and she has the look of a hunter who has beaten some very large prey.

But they worry she might be mistaken. Lady Andruil is supposed to be unbeatable. Pet is afraid that she is playing a game; that she is only hiding, and feigning death, the way she sometimes feigns sleep. That she is following after them in the shadows where they cannot see, and that she will ambush them.

They do not how to voice these thoughts without seeming impudent, however. Lady Aili seems strange and kind but she is also powerful, and Pet has been taught how to behave around powerful elves. Speaking out of turn is not to borne.

When they get to the outpost, Lady Aili leads Pet into one of the outbuildings. It is small, but still bigger than Pet’s cell at the palace. She finds a chair and bids them sit there, and tells them to wait, and keep very quiet, until she gets back.

They obey, of course. They are afraid to be left alone, but they do not question her instructions.

Lady Aili looks sad for a moment, even though they do as they are told.

She rests a hand against their cheek.

“Don’t worry,” she tells them. “I won’t leave you. I’ll be right back.”

Pet… feels a little better about the situation, to their surprised. They nod in understanding. Lady Aili does not try to kiss them or choke them. She just brushes their cheek again, like Andruil does when she is being gentle, except it seems different. Then Aili goes and leaves them.

The feeling of reassurance fades, as Pet is left alone in the strange room. They look out towards the window. It is dark. There are many trees around the outpost, and in the shadows, they keep feeling as though they can see someone watching them back. _Lady Andruil,_ they think. She was feigning again. She has followed them. They freeze in place, barely breathing as their heart pounds in their chest, and they wait for her to come and rush in and strike them for disobedience. For her to declare that Pet has lost the game and will die now, spiritless and useless.

They are still frozen in place when Lady Aili comes back.

“What’s wrong?” she asks them.

Pet bows their head.

“Lady Andruil is watching,” they whisper, darting a glance to the window.

Lady Aili frowns, and then moves to look. They almost stop her. Sometimes the games will last longer if you pretend not to see, but if _you_ catch _Andruil,_ then it is always worse. Always, always. She will congratulate and praise but her hands will be harder and her teeth will be sharper, and she will make things hurt more.

“Don’t…” they say, quietly.

“She’s not out there,” Aili tells them, as she stands resolutely by the window. “She’s dead, Little Heart. I tore her apart and then burned the remains.”

They should not contradict. But Lady Aili does not seem to mind so much. And perhaps…

“Sometimes she pretends,” they say. “She will pretend to be hurt, or sleeping. She used to fool me all the time. Not that I think you would be so easy to fool, but… Lady Andruil is good at it. She is very powerful and she knows how to find me, no matter where I go…”

Lady Aili does not seem angry with them for their explanation. She does not seem happy, either. Instead she seems… sad, as she comes closer, and then reaches out and carefully takes their hand.

“Not this time,” she says.

Pet knows it’s ungrateful, but they find themselves hoping that she is right.

Aili leads them back out of the little room that she told them to wait in. There is fresh blood on her clothes, they realize. The night is quiet and dark, and the outpost is silent. Aili takes them to the main building. There are bodies in the corner, silent and unmoving. Lady Aili tells them not to look, for some reason, so Pet stares at their feet instead. There is an eluvian in the lower reaches of the outpost. It is not active, they think it might need some sort of key, but before they can worry too much, Lady Aili pulls a strange stone object from her coat pocket. As she holds it up to the glass, the magic in the eluvian comes to life.

“I got this on another world,” she tells them, with a smile. “I killed Andruil there, too.”

Pet blinks.

“There are other Andruils on other worlds?” they ask.

Lady Aili nods.

“Is there… is there one in _your_ world?”

The question makes her pause and stiffen, and Pet reads displeasure. They hastily bow.

“I meant no offense.”

“And you didn’t cause any,” Aili assures them. “There’s… yes, there’s an Andruil in that world, still. But she doesn’t know you exist. She has different memories, and she’s nowhere near the place where we are going.”

Pet nods, more reflexive than reassured. No one ever told them there were other worlds before, but then, people often do not tell them things. It’s better to figure them out on their own, if they can. By watching and waiting and listening. They are patient. It is one good thing about them. They keep their head down, as Lady Aili finishes opening the eluvian. Then she hesitates again, before asking if they would be willing to wear a blindfold.

“The path between worlds is frightening,” she tells them. “It would be easiest if you just let me lead you. But if you don’t want to, I won’t force you to.”

Pet knows the answers to these sorts of games. ‘I won’t force you to’ means that their Lady wants them to say that they will. Bad things generally happen if they don’t, but sometimes those bad things _are_ different from whatever they are supposed to agree to. Usually worse. Once or twice they weren’t, though. Before she became bored with them, one of Lady Andruil’s favourite games was making them guess what would be worse. They had gotten good at it - maybe that was part of why she tired of them, then.

After a moment, Pet agrees to the blindfold. They do not think Lady Aili is as tricky as Andruil. Or else, she is much, _much_ trickier. But either way, it seems to be a good answer. Lady Aili covers their eyes and takes their hand again, and tells them to not let go of her and to walk in a straight line. Then she leads them through the eluvian.

Pet can feel it. The magical energy of the gateway. They have walked through eluvians before, of course. It is only when they come out to the other side that things seem different. Rather than feeling the air on their skin, or the dissipating crackle of magic at their back, they find themselves engulfed by a sense of… nothing.

A heavy nothingness, that feels like it is trying to weigh down all the breath in their lungs.

Aili squeezes their hand and pulls them forward, reminding them to walk straight. The ground beneath their feet feels smooth, and the darkness of the blindfold seems somehow even darker than it already should be.

“Aili?” they ask, anxiously. Not even certain what they mean to ask her.

“It’s alright,” she says. “You’re still here, Little Heart. So am I. Just keep walking and we’ll reach the other side. It’s only dark, don’t worry about anything else. Here… I’ll hum us a tune.”

She does start to hum, then. Something low and soothing, that Pet has never heard before. It is pleasant, though. Even if the echo at the end of it seems strange, and their mind conjures up odd images, of words falling into deep, dark spaces. They cannot help but feel as though Andruil’s eyes are on them again. Somewhere out in the darkness. Watching and waiting, adding to the feeling of heaviness. The prickling of their fear.

Aili’s tune helps. They walk a long ways - or what feels like a long ways - before it echoes out into the darkness, and then something whistles back.

Aili stops.

Pet stops, too, uncertain.

“Alright,” Aili says. “Now we’re going to run. In a straight line. Very fast, don’t stop unless I say so.”

The tune follows them as they begin to run. Aili keeps hold of their hand, and Pet runs straight forward, just as told. They keep going and only hesitate when they begin to see light past the darkness of their blindfold; but then Aili pushes them and they stumble forward, and the familiar magic of an eluvian engulfs them again.

Pet kneels on hard ground, and feels air around them. Aili pulls off their blindfold, but they barely glance the odd chamber around themselves before she herds them into a corner of it, and begins to look them over.

“Are you alright?” she asks them.

“I am not hurt,” the say, which is true. Their heart is beating very fast, and their knees sting a little from where they fell through the other side of the eluvian, but they’re otherwise fine. Aili looks fine as well, despite the dried blood on her skin.

“What was that?” they wonder. They couldn’t figure out much for themselves, not with their eyes covered.

Aili looks worried.

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“Do you think it was Lady Andruil?” they ask.

She shakes her head.

“No,” she says, firmly. “Andruil wouldn’t know how to get there, and I doubt she’d whistle at us if she did. But sometimes there are… things. In the space between worlds. It’s not an empty darkness. But, that’s not important right now. We made it to the other side, so now we can relax.”

Pet nods uncertainly. They notice the other elves in the chamber, then. Unfamiliar faces marked with unfamiliar vallaslin, that look curiously at themselves and Aili. Pet averts their gaze, but one of the elves catches it anyway. She looks surprised. Her footsteps sound loud across the chamber floor as she walks over to them; she is wearing boots, even though they are indoors. The wide space around them reminds Pet of Andruil’s throne room, but only in terms of size. It is a reception area, they think. There is a very large and strange-looking eluvian in it, and a doorway that seems to lead to some healing chambers, and there are places to sit and converse. No hearths. But the space is warm, despite how big it is.

“Hello,” the strange elf says. “Aili, what’s…? What happened?”

“I said I might bring someone back,” Lady Aili replies, looking slightly uncomfortable. She clears her throat. “Lavellan, this is… a new guest. Little Heart, this is Lavellan. She’s a traveler between worlds. Like me.”

“Like you, now, too,” Lavellan says. There is an odd expression on her face as she looks at them. Akin to Aili’s. But then she seems to notice all of the blood on Lady Aili’s clothes.

“What happened?” she asks, again. More pointedly.

“Later,” Aili requests. Pet struggles to tell which of them holds more rank, even as Lavellan seems to back down, because Lady Aili’s tone is soft and pleading, rather than harsh and commanding. Yet it still works, even though they think that this Lady Lavellan wants to have her answers right now. She gives them another long, odd look, before gesturing towards one of the side rooms.

Aili keeps hold of their hand and says they should go that way. Pet follows, trying to take in as much as they can without deliberately staring.

“Are you not coming, Lav?” one of the other unfamiliar elves calls out.

Lavellan waves towards them.

“I’ll catch up,” she says. “Just don’t go far once you’re on the other side.”

“Are you going back to the Emerald World?” Aili asks her, quietly.

Lavellan nods.

“We’ve still got a few loose ends to tie off,” she says.

“You don’t have to wait, I can look after them for now, and explain when you get back,” Aili tells her.

Pet does not hear Lavellan reply, but she must have an interesting expression on her face, because Aili just sighs and does not make the same suggestion twice. They walk through a pale arched doorway, and Pet’s suspicions are confirmed as they enter into a healing chamber. There are more elves inside. They head over to Aili first, but she waves them off, and then gently tugs Pet towards them.

“These are our healers, Little Heart,” she says. “Some of them, anyway. Compassion here is very kind, and so is Patience. They’ll just look you over, if that’s alright? To make sure you don’t have any injuries that we might have missed.”

Pet nods, confused that Aili makes it sound like it is something they could refuse. Healers can’t be refused. But sometimes they can be nice. Sometimes they can be worse than hunters, too, but these ones are not wearing Ghilan’nain’s markings. Pet lets them use their magic, moving where they are told and lifting their arms when required. They do not strip, but one of the healers - Patience, they think - lifts their tunic, and then Compassion asks when the last time they had healing magic done to them was. They remember, it was only yesterday. Compassion touches some of the sore spots on their sides, that are still pink from healing, and finds a bruise behind their ear. Pet starts to feel tired as the magic washes over them. Patience asks if they feel nauseous, and they say that they do; rather than being given something, though, the healers just tell them to lie down.

Then they ask a bunch of questions about when Pet sleeps and what they eat. They answer, watching from the corner of their eye as Lady Aili converses quietly with Lady Lavellan. They cannot hear what is being said, and they think the two ladies know they are paying attention. Neither of them ignores Pet or seems dismissive of their presence in the room.

Lady Lavellan is short, Pet notices. She is the same height as Aili, barely a little bit shorter than Pet themselves, and Pet is designed to be short. She has darker skin, and her hair is done up into many intricate braids, with colourful beads in them. But her clothes are plainer and in a strange style, like working clothes, but also not. Pet wonders if people from different worlds wear different sorts of clothes.

They must, they suppose.

“I think I can handle the rest,” Compassion says to Patience. Then they smile at Pet, and Patience nods, and goes over to Lady Aili. While Patience is prodding at Lady Aili and saying things that sound oddly stern to Pet’s ears, Lady Lavellan comes over.

She smiles at them again. It does not seem like a dangerous smile, either, but at times it can be hard to tell.

“Aili says you don’t know very much about what’s going on yet,” Lavellan tells them.

“I am not very smart,” Pet concedes, hoping that’s the right answer.

“I think you are, actually,” Lavellan tells them, but she doesn’t sound angry; though her eyes soften a lot, as if she is sad instead. “But if you have any questions, you can ask me them.” She shares a look with Compassion, and Pet wonders if asking the wrong question will prompt the healer to hurt them. They hated that game; Lady Ghilan’nain played it, though, not Andruil. And… Lavellan does not seem like Lady Ghilan’nain. She seems more like Aili, perhaps.

“I think I can start with something,” she says, as Pet remains quiet. Lifting a hand, she places it to her chest. “My name is Lavellan, as Aili said. I am from a different world from this one. Actually, I came to another world before I came here, too. I’ve been to a lot of them now. In the world I first came from, no one’s emotions were visible in their aura. Everyone just kept them inside their skin, like a secret.”

Pet freezes, taken aback at the assertion. They remember Lady Aili telling them something similar, but…

“But you have emotions,” they say, noticing the subtle aura around the woman. They duck their head, realizing that they have contradicted her. But she only nods.

“I always had them,” she says. “They just didn’t always show.”

“Did you trap a spirit?” Pet wonders.

Lavellan shakes her head.

“No. I wouldn’t want to, either. Partnerships with spirits can work out very well, but trapping one would probably make us both unhappy.”

Pet lets out a long breath, uncertain of how to take in all of this information.

Andruil and Ghilan’nain said… but, Lady Aili told them that they were liars. And even though it might be foolish, Pet wants to believe that. It’s dangerous to want things, though. Wanting is what other people can use to hurt them. Hurt them in more than just their body. They think of the shard of Glory, tucked secretly away in their pocket, and remember how it resonated with Lady Aili.

Maybe Glory thinks these people are telling the truth. Maybe they are like Desire; maybe they… maybe they _do_ know better.

“Lady Aili says that I am a person,” they venture, boldly.

Lavellan smiles.

“She’s right. And she would know, she has met other versions of you many times, in many worlds.”

Pet finds themselves dumbfounded at this assertion. Other versions…?

“There are more pets?” they wonder.

Lavellan’s smile falters.

“More versions of you,” she says. “In different worlds. Not like… not like people just making more bodies, or anything. It’s like… well, for example, there is another version of ‘me’ in this world right now. She is the evanuris who rules over these lands, actually. Her name is Mana’Din, but she was also called Lavellan for a long time. We aren’t the same person, but, we’re like… the same character in different stories. Only now we have come to be in the same story. Like if you could reach into a mirror and take your reflection’s hand, and pull them out to stand beside you. You’d be the same person but you’d still have your own minds and memories, you’d be able to go and do different things. That’s what I mean.”

Pet nods in understanding. They grasp this concept, at least where it applies to people like Lavellan and Andruil, but it seems somehow much harder to apply it to themselves.

Lavellan takes a careful seat next to them, though, and starts to explain about many worlds and how some of them are very similar, and have the same people in them, and some of them are more different, but still sometimes have similar ‘circumstances’ and people, too. It’s interesting. Pet doesn’t have to pretend to find it so, and despite themselves, they find their curiosity growing at the prospect of other versions of themself existing. Versions who know Aili. Who know Lavellan, too.

The idea that Lavellan was once like them still seems unbelievable, but… the notion makes something in them tangle up in longing.

“This place is a sanctuary for those who seek refuge from worlds that are dangerous or destroyed,” Lavellan tells them, as she finishes explaining. “Outside this building there’s a camp, and a lot of the people living there are like you are right now. Their emotions don’t manifest in their auras.”

“More… like me?” they ask.

She nods.

“…Can I meet them?” Pet wonders.

“Of course,” she says. “Once the healers are finished and someone’s found you some clothes and gotten you some food, Aili will probably want to show you around.”

Lady Aili looks over at them from where Patience has given her a small vial of something dark to drink. Pet thinks they can smell the familiar tang of an energy restoration tonic from where they are. She downs it in one gulp, and then motions at them.

“I should probably go check on Vhenan,” she says, mostly to Lavellan. “Did they do alright?”

  
"You probably know better than I do,” Lavellan replies. She looks up at a graceful time piece, that is extended over the archway doors to the healing room. “Do you want me to stay with them? I’ll need to send someone else on the mission instead, if I stay much longer…”

Aili sighs, and Pet wonders if they are causing problems.

“I can wait,” they say. It would not be the first time they have been left to wait in healing rooms. They usually find it better than a lot of the alternatives.

Lavellan and Aili both look at them, and then each other. Pet is uncertain what to make of their expressions.

“Papa has Mealla and Night,” Lavellan says, after a moment. Pet doesn’t know what that means. “It’s his rest day. Nanae is in Daran, but they’ll be back tonight. No one was really expecting you back until tomorrow.”

Aili lets out a breath.

“You can get going, then. I’ll get Little Heart sorted.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind, considering…”

“I can handle it,” Aili says, confidently. “Vhenan’s calm. And you’ve been working on this mission for months, you shouldn’t leave your team waiting.”

There is another quiet stand-off of expressions changed. Finally, it seems, Lavellan relents. She turns to Pet with a smile.

“I’ll see you again soon,” she tells them. Then she turns back to Aili. “If you have troubles, Pride knows how to reach me. He’s working in the archives today.”

Aili lets out a long breath. Her emotions move in closer to herself, but she only nods, and with one last smile Lavellan gets up and heads out of the healing chambers. Pet tries to process everything they have been learning, in what seems like a very short amount of time. They have a lot of questions, but they don’t know which ones they are permitted to ask. Even if it is ostensibly any of them, they know there are always costs for such things.

Aili settles a hand on their shoulder. When they flinch, she takes it back.

“Sorry,” they say, quickly. “I was just surprised.”

“It’s nothing to apologize for,” she tells them. “I should have asked first.”

She should have?

Pet waits, but after a moment, it does not seem as if she means to elaborate on that point. Instead she lets out a breath, and stands up. Patience helped get the blood off of her clothes. She looks tired, but not in the mood to rest; as Andruil might look after a great hunt. Though there is no sharpness to her gaze, or demand to her touch, when she offers a hand to them again.

“Lavellan was right, though, we should find you some food and clothes next. And I should probably find a messenger to let Thenvunin know we’re here.”

“Thenvunin?” they ask, unthinkingly. _And who is Mealla?_

“He’s…” Aili starts. Then she trails off, uncertain. “He’s one of my daughter’s other parents.”

“You have a daughter?” Pet asks.

  
This makes Aili smile, very brightly. Their breath catches at the expression. They do not think they have ever seen someone look so happy at a question before.

“I do,” she tells them. “She’s still very small, and she’s the most precious thing in the universe to me. Her and my Heart.”

Pet takes the hand she is offering to them. Her touch is warm and the look she gives them is very soft, as she helps them down from where Compassion bade them sit and rest. Pet does not know what to make of the look she gives them. It’s not one they think they have ever received from anyone before. It warms them all the way through.

“You remind me of both of them,” she says.

They consider this information. It seems like a very strange thing to say. No one would like to be compared to Pet, unless perhaps it was in looks. Maybe her Vhenan and Mealla look like Pet does? The thought suddenly reminds them of what Lavellan was explaining before - and Aili, too - about different versions of people, in different worlds. And how Aili has met other versions of themselves.

They think they have a suspicion. Part of them does not want to voice it, for fear of causing offense with it. The very thought seems like it would be presumptuous and insulting to Lady Aili. But… it makes sense. And Lady Aili thinks they are a person. So does Lavellan. She seems so sure of it, and she is kind and careful with them…

Pet tucks the suspicion away, suddenly afraid of it for reasons they cannot articulate. It wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be right to ask.

“You figured something out,” Aili guesses, though, as they leave the healing rooms.

Pet swallows.

“Do I have to say?” they wonder.

She shakes her head. “You can tell me anything, Little Heart, but you don’t _have_ to tell me anything.”

Is this another test? It sounds like a test. They wonder if they have passed any of the ones they have been given so far. No one has hurt them, so perhaps they have? Or perhaps the penance is still waiting, hanging overhead, like a raised hand that savours the fear before the strike.

Part of them cannot stand waiting for the blow to fall. Sometimes it is better when it is simply over, and has happened, and they are just left with bruises instead.

“Is your vhenan like me?” they wonder, very quietly.

Aili squeezes their hand.

“They are another version of you,” she says. “And there is a third version of you here, too.”

Pet swallows, and does not know what to think, except that something inside of them is trembling at the revelation.

~

Mealla is very tiny.

It takes two days before Pet meets her. Despite Aili’s assurances that they could sleep in their bed, in the end, all the discussions result in them taking a room in Lady Lavellan’s chambers. It is bigger than their cell, and there are locks on the door but they only work from the inside. Lady Lavellan comes back from her mission in the evening, after Aili has given Pet food and water and shown them around the Hidden Estate, as it is called. As promised, there are people on the grounds who seem to be like Pet. They don’t show their emotions openly. But no one treats them like dolls, either.

Everyone is nice. It is very strange to them. They sleep in a bed that is nearly as soft as Lady Andruil’s, but the nice sheets just make them feel like they are waiting for someone to come in and use their body; when they get up, Lavellan somehow guesses the problem and brings them a bedroll instead. It’s not as soft, but Pet puts it beneath the bed and hides in the darkness, and feels safer.

They meet the first of their alternate selves the next day. Lady Aili’s Vhenan is very strange. They look similar to Pet, but not precisely. There is a difference to their features, a sharpness to their nails and teeth, and to their gaze. Their eyes are red-brown and their hair is short, but they are the same height and build, and looking at them does feel a little like staring into a mirror.

A strange one. Dark and twisted, but bright with the flare of their emotions. _Fear_ strikes Pet with some force, before they pull it back in. Then their other self turns away.

“I can’t,” they say to Aili, coldly. “I can’t look at them.”

Lady Aili apologizes to Pet, for some reason, and assures them that everything is alright, but she leaves them with Lavellan while she takes away her Vhenan. Lavellan sits with them and eats lunch with them, and explains that the other version of themselves _did_ bond with a spirit. A Spirit of Fear. And that Andruil tortured them so much that they are still recovering from it.

Pet thinks they understand.

If they saw themselves as they were when Glory was trapped in them, it… would be hard, they think.

But they cannot deny their interest, either. That other self of theirs could change their shape. They must have been able to, in order to look that way. They could change their shape and project emotions and they looked… frightening, even if they were frightened. Like they could kill Pet without a second thought. Like they wanted, perhaps, for one moment.

They looked like a hunter.

Their other-other self, the third one, does not want to meet them. Aili says that they do not want Thenvunin to meet them, either, and she apologizes for this; Pet is disappointed, but there is nothing to be done for it. They are almost relieved in a sense, too. Aili tells them that Thenvunin and Uthvir, as this version of themselves is called, are ‘a couple’. They have some trepidations over meeting Thenvunin. Aili describes his looks, and he sounds like Falon’Din. What if he expects them to serve him in bed? Pet… doesn’t want that purpose anymore, they do not think.

They keep these worries to themselves, though. They do not want to cause offense. So far no one has struck them or shouted at them or even raised a hand, and while the wait is tense, bit by bit they are beginning to like going for so long without pain.

They meet Mealla the next day.

It’s mainly by accident.

Lavellan had left them in the main room of her chambers with some books to read, to go to a meeting with some other travelers to different worlds. Pet is interested in it all; they are like hunters, but rather than killing beasts, they seem to seek out other things. When they had said as much, Lavellan had produced books about the different worlds for them to read. Aili says that they are allowed to travel, if they wish it. Once Pet knows more of what they ‘want’, then they will ‘sort some things out’. It is a difficult thing to consider; making decisions, they know, is much harder than following orders.

But for now, they only have to read. They are trying to wrap their head around a massive diagram of what seem to be many worlds, when they hear the door to the chambers open.

“Mea!” they hear Aili call.

There is a sound of giggling, and then a rapid _thump thump_ of tiny footsteps. As the door to the chamber opens again, Pet looks, and sees a very small elf staring curiously up at their chair.

_Very_ small.

They did not imagine children correctly, they think. They were picturing something proportionately tiny. A little elf that could be held in one’s palm, perhaps. But this is not what they see, and despite never having seen a baby before, they somehow know that they are looking at one. She is small and plump, with large eyes and tiny hands, golden curls and oddly distorted features, that nevertheless seem to make more sense to them than what they were imagining. There is a crooked bow in her hair, and she is wearing a bright blue dress, with white flower patterns on it.

As Pet looks at her, she looks at them.

Then she grins and begins babbling, using sounds that only vaguely resemble words.

“Mealla!” Aili exclaims, hurrying over. “What are you doing? I said we weren’t going in this door…”

“Ma!” the baby grins at her, happily. Despite the scolding nature of the words, Aili’s tone does not sound angry. And she smiles at the baby’s babbling, and leans down to scoop her up.

To Pet’s surprise, the little elf scampers away before she can be grabbed, and instead crashes into their knees.

“Ma do ah!” she exclaims, tugging on their leggings. More babbling follows, while Aili sighs.

“Well,” she says. “You were going to meet anyway. This is Mealla, Little Heart.”

Pet nods in understanding, frozen and uncertain of what to do. Elves are _very_ protective of babies. They think they can suddenly understand why. Babies are cute. But they do not know anything of how to react to one, and they are struck numb by the sudden certain that if they make a wrong move, nothing good will come of it.

Aili leans over to pick up Mealla again. She makes a sound of protest, and grips Pet’s leggings, and tries to clamber into their lap instead.

“I’m sorry,” they say.

Aili laughs.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she says. “She’s just curious. And she probably wants to feel your hair, she does that. But don’t let her; she pulls.”

Mealla makes another sound of protest and squirms and reaches out little hands towards them, before she finally seems to realize that she’s caught. Then she lets out a tiny huff, and settles into her mother’s arms instead.

Pet finds themselves mesmerized again, just looking at her. Such a strange, tiny creature, but…

She is beautiful.

For some reason, they feel near to tears.

“You can say ‘hello’,” Aili tells them.

They swallow.

“Hello,” they venture.

Mealla babbles back at them, gesturing wildly with her arms, and seeming as though she is attempting to articulate a great many things.

“I don’t understand her,” they admit, uncertainly.

“That’s because she’s still learning to talk,” Aili tells them. After a moment, she settles down onto the little sofa beside them. Holding Mealla in her lap, and catching her hands when she suddenly lunges towards Pet. Another sound of protest ensues, but Aili quiets it with some gentle shushing. She looks at Mealla the same way that she has looked at Pet, sometimes. With that look in her eyes that makes their insides warm and twist.

“Ma bada!” the baby exclaims, emphatically.

“I know, baby,” Aili says, and kisses her nose. She wriggles and gets a hand loose, and closes it determinedly onto their sleeve.

“Papa!” she says, very determinedly. “Papa a do!”

“She thinks your hair looks like her Papa’s,” Aili explains to them.

“Does it?” they wonder.

“A little,” she says. “It’s a broad category right now. ‘Papa a do’ basically just means anything with long, pale hair. Mine’s too short, you see.”

She grins, and does not seem bothered by Pet’s existence in her daughter’s presence. As the baby keeps trying to reach over to them, they finally venture a hand towards her. When Aili offers no objections, they move close enough for the baby to close two little fists around their fingers.

They are shocked when she drags their hand over to her mouth, and then inside of it.

“Um,” they say.

“Oh, sorry, she’ll… uh, she does that. It’s normal. If awkward,” Aili tells them, before gently pulling Mealla away again. She fishes out something soft and light green in colour, and gives it to the baby to put in her mouth instead. Mealla immediately begins to suck on the odd little toy, which stems off all of the babbling for a while. She keeps reaching for Pet, though, until they finally surmise what she’s after. Aili begins to warn them, as they lean in close. They are still not quite prepared for the feeling of tiny fists closing on their hair, and _yanking._

It is not the most painful hair-pulling they’ve enduring, but it still hurts.

“No, no, no,” Aili says, taking the baby’s wrists in her hands, and helping to carefully untangle the strands of hair from her grasp.

“Sorry,” Pet says.

“It’s alright, it’s just that she pulls,” Aili assures them. “She definitely wanted to grab it, but you don’t have to let her.”

They nod in understanding.

“I would never retaliate,” they hastily assure her. Not only because they know better, and know their place, but also because the very thought of striking Mealla seems to make their gut twist unpleasantly.

“I know,” Aili tells them. “Everything’s alright. We were just going to go play outside for a while, and then I was going to come get you in a few hours. Lavellan said you were reading.”

“I was,” they confirm.

“Would you like to come with us, though?” she suggests.

Pet finds themselves agreeing before they can think twice about it. Mealla seems satisfied with having pulled on their hair once, and is now paying most of her attention to the little green toy she is eating. Or… not really eating. Sucking and chewing on. Pet is reminded of some of Andruil’s hounds, and how they would gnaw at bones. This is much cuter, though, somehow.

When Aili picks her up to leave, she doesn’t make protesting sounds. Instead she rests her head on her mother’s shoulder. Pet cannot help but stare the entire time they leave the chamber, and then all the way down the hall, too. Watching her tiny mouth move, and her fingers curl around the toy, flexing and unflexing. She looks back at them a few times, and smiles.

Pet smiles back. It seems like the thing to do, rather than averting their gaze.

When they get outside, Mealla pulls the spit-covered toy from her mouth, and extends it towards them.

They take it, the gesture making clear that they’re supposed to. Aili puts the baby down in a patch of garden that seems to be intended for someone small. Pet has not been to this space before. There are soft flowers planted in the ground, and the ground itself is covered in sweet-smelling grass. Very little magic seems to permeate the atmosphere, except for some exceptionally strong wards, that seems to hum and shine with a magic that resonates against them. Like it should be familiar, except that they cannot place it.

It feels… safe.

Very safe.

Mealla finds a tiny yellow bucket in the grass, and toddles over to some of the flowers, and immediately starts pick them and dropping them in it.

“Don’t worry,” Aili says. “The flowers regrow. They’re designed to take a little damage.”

Pet nods, though they were not thinking about the flowers. Mealla seems to know her task very well, even if its meaning escapes them. She finds a yellow implement that matches her bucket, and smacks it enthusiastically against the ground, and toddles around while Aili moves to sit with her and ‘play’. It does not look like any sort of game that Pet knows. Aili tells Mealla the names of colours and talks with her while the baby babbles back, laughing and running around with reckless abandon.

Then Mealla sits down on the grass, and topples over.

Pet moves towards her in concern. Aili gets their first, though, and scoops the baby up.

“She’s just tired now,” she says, rubbing at Mealla’s back.

“Ma,” Mealla murmurs, seemingly content with being cuddled, now.

Pet stares, and after a moment, Aili assures them that they can gently touch her. If they want to. They reach over, and brush a finger across her cheek. She shifts a little bit, but doesn’t seem bothered. Her skin is remarkably soft. So is her hair, as they brush a few of her curls back from her face. It looks like Aili’s. But there is something… not entirely of Aili in her features, too.

Something that looks rather like themselves, when they stare in the mirror.

_Another reflection,_ they think. _Me but not me._

Aili turns her hand and kisses Mealla’s curls, and lets out a long breath.

“See?” she says, softly. “Babies happen when two people combine parts of themselves to make someone new. If you weren’t a person, then Mealla wouldn’t exist.”

Pet swallows.

“I… I don’t know how to make anything like this,” they say.

There is a long pause.

  
”So, okay, so… some gaps in your education, I see,” Aili ventures. She clears her throat. “We can work on that. It’s alright. But… you already have everything you would need to make a baby. Not that you should, definitely not, not now anyways and probably not any time soon, but… um. That’s all beside the point.”

She seems very confident as she assures them of these things. Pet doesn’t think she’s lying, though now they have a lot more to wonder about.

Even so…

For the first time since they left Andruil, they think they really might believe in the things she has been telling them.


	10. Troublemaker

Mealla sits in Papa’s garden on a floral print blanket, staring up at the shifting colors of the sky.

What is it that makes them change, she wonders. Is it spirits passing through the Dreaming nearby? Is it magic? Perhaps the sky reflects the feelings of the earth, and its colors fluctuate to suit its moods.

Perhaps they simply change because they wish to.

That is how Nenae and Nanae change. They make their nails blunt and their teeth round, and add wings and arms and shadows sometimes. They can even be a bird, if they feel like it.

Not a bird like the ones in Papa’s garden, who are all small and plump and fluttery. They are mostly just for looking pretty. And pooping on people, according to Mama.

Well. Except Screecher.

But Nenae’s bird is huge and strong and fast. They can pull themselves up far above the rooftops. Up to the clouds and the ever-shifting colors of the sky. Where the world must seem big and wide and open.

What does it look like up there?

Can you sense the feelings of the earth when you pass through different colors?

Can you taste the clouds?

Her eyes track one of Papa’s songbirds, a little flash of emerald and purple darting through the trees. Its wings beat like a speeding heart. It is so small, and yet, it can go anywhere it wants to.

Did birds get wings by wanting them? By knowing they are birds and that the sky is theirs? By reaching up and simply trusting that the wind will lift them?

Mealla raises her arms. Stretching out her fingers as far as they will go. But…she does not move from the blanket.

She huffs in disappointment.

She is meant to be having a tea party with Papa, but Big Sister showed up unannounced while he was getting the snacks ready, and now they are discussing Adult Things inside. They can probably still see her through the windows, and Mealla is big enough to not wander into bushes with thorns and things.

Maybe being a bird would be easier in a tree?

She looks back to see if anyone is watching, before making her way over to one of the bigger shadier trees in the garden. She makes a bold attempt at clambering up its trunk, but it is too big around, and she is too short to even reach the lowest branch. She kicks one of its roots in agitation.

The next tree she tries is much smaller, a slender decorative one that makes pretty flowers in the spring months. It takes a few tries, but she eventually manages to jump high enough to reach a branch and pull herself up. Its limbs are twisty and stacked close together, and Mealla climbs up them like she did when she was really little and still figuring out stairs. Hands and knees and toes.

Soon she has conquered her chosen tree, and while it is not as tall as some of the others, it is the highest up she has ever been. Much higher than sitting on a halla’s back. And even higher than riding on Papa’s shoulders.

Mealla looks back towards the sky.

She thinks of falling into it like a huge lake. She thinks of wind and clouds and freedom. She thinks of wings, and belonging to them. And she lets go of her Mealla-ness.

Her pudgy limbs and heavy bones. Everything she is now is weighty and sluggish. And she stretches out beyond it, remaking her image in air and sunlight.

And she lets go of the tree branch.

The ground rises up to meet her much more quickly than she had expected, and there is a moment of fear. A frightened squawk. And she spreads her arms out on instinct, flailing, trying to slow down.

And the wind catches her. And _lifts_.

And oh- _Oh_. She can feel it now. The rustling of feathers and the keenness of her eyes. The air pushing up beneath her wings until she is nearly floating.

She flaps her new appendages awkwardly, trying to pull herself higher. To clear the garden walls and maybe see what lies beyond to boundaries of the manor. Maybe she could fly to another territory. Or finally see Arlathan, and all the wonders such a place must hold. A city, teeming with people, and all sorts of fancy toys and pretty gardens and shows to go to.

Mealla’s confidence is soaring with every successful beat of her wings. This is amazing. This is _easy_. She was born for this, and no one can stop her.

And then she slams full force into some sort of invisible barrier just beyond the top of the garden wall.

Dazed, she finds herself spinning back towards the ground. She tries to flap her wings, but she is upside down and all it seems to do is twist her around in circles. There is an alarm sound going off somewhere, and she opens her mouth to scream-

And a large dark shape snatches her out of the air, carefully bringing her back down onto her blanket.

Nenae is staring at her with the fierce eyes of a hawk. Papa is standing behind them by the garden door, his face ashen, as though he might be seconds away from fainting. And Big Sister is there too, her hands clutching Papa’s arm to steady him.

Everyone looks angry and worried and maybe even a bit scared. She does not know what to make of that. Because… Well, none of them have ever been upset with _her_ before.

Usually when someone in her family is upset with another person, they yell at them, or fight them, or even just ignore their existence entirely. She can’t imagine any of them treating her that way, though. Why would they?

Mealla cannot quite fathom what the consequences for this experiment might be, but she thinks that she will probably not be able to try flying again anytime soon.

Well.

At least, not where anyone can see.


	11. Where Babies Come From

Mealla is very important.

She knows, because everyone says so. Her parents do not always agree about things, especially Mama and Papa, but none of their opinions seem to differ on this front. Not even Big Sister Lavellan’s. People are always glad to see her when they go to eat meals, or even just walking down the halls, and the spirits that linger around the estate always try to help her find things and make her laugh. Even the people out in the camp, who are not always very happy, usually take a moment to smile at her and say something nice and soft sounding in one of the strange languages they speak. All of which solidifies her belief in the significance of her place in the universe.

Despite being aware of this, she is excited when Mama tells her that she has a Very Important Job for her to do. Not that she is too surprised by this news, because Mealla is a good helper, even though she is only three and makes a lot of messes. Mama asks her to sit with Nanae sometimes, when they start to go all shifty and far-away and full of worry. She touches their face and kisses them and tells them about her most recent adventures until they feel better.

It does not always work, but she knows that is because their hurts are very big, and she is still very small.

She is good at it, though. Just like she is good at a lot of things. She was walking and talking faster than any of her parents had expected, and sometimes she can do magic things without anyone teaching her how. She does not know how she knows those things; she just does. Like knowing how to breathe. She still can’t seem to get the hang of whistling though, which is frustrating.

Today, Mama wants her help cheering up someone who is not Nanae. A lady in the camp who came from the other side of the Big Mirror that her mama uses to go do work things sometimes. Mama found the lady all alone, and now she is having trouble making friends, so Mealla is going to help.

She is good at making friends, too. 

Mama puts her in one of her fancier dresses and braids her long hair out of her face. Mealla insists on wearing the butterfly clip Papa gave her and all three of her shiny bead necklaces. If she is going to look ‘nice’, she has to wear as many of her pretty things as possible. Papa said so. Normally she wouldn’t bother, because those sorts of things tend to get in her way on adventures, but if this is part of her Important Job, she wants to do it right.

She gives Nanae a kiss as they settle down for one of their long naps. They shift a little, and shoot a worried look at Mama, and she thinks that maybe they would like to help with the Important Job, too. They only smile at her when she asks, though, pulling her close for a moment to sniff at her hair until she starts to get wiggly, and tells her to stay close to Mama and come back soon.

She wants to know why Nanae is worried, but then Mama scoops her up and bounces her on her hip as they make their way down the halls of the manor, singing silly songs and waving to people they pass, and the thought goes out of her head.

She asks to walk once they get out to the camp. Papa never lets her, but Mama doesn’t mind as long as she holds onto her hand. Nenae even let her go on her own a little so she could make friends with some of the children, even though they stayed really close behind her the whole time. She says hello to some of the people she has met before, and one of the elves with the aging sickness comes over and gives her a pretty little halla carved from wood. She grins in delight before popping its head into her mouth.

Mama puts a quick stop to that.

There is a big man sitting all alone, crying and holding what looks like a doll, and Mealla thinks maybe she should giving him a hug, but Mama picks her back up and pulls her into one of the tents, explaining in a soft voice that sometimes grownups want to be alone when they are sad.

She doesn’t really understand why, but before she can ask, her attention is claimed by the occupant of the tent. She gasps softly, eyes going wide with awe.

Mealla thinks she must be the biggest lady she’s ever seen.

She is definitely _much_ taller than Mama, and probably Nanae and Nenae, too. And the longer she looks, the more she thinks that she might even be taller than _Papa_. Such thoughts boggle the mind.

The color of her skin and her horns mean that the lady is probably what Mama calls a Coonary, like the little yellow birds Papa likes. Mealla does not think the lady looks very much like a bird, though. Maybe more like a dragon. Those horns look pretty neat, but she thinks she probably couldn’t reach them even if Mama did put her down.

The woman looks at them warily, and says something to her mama before letting out a big sigh and smiling at her faintly. She seems to ask a question, but the words are funny-sounding.

Mama answers in the same language before setting her on the ground and allowing her to totter over curiously to meet the woman whom she can only assume is about to be her new friend.

“Mealla, this is Kassaran,” Mama says.

“Kass-wan,” Mealla attempts to parrot back with a faint lisp.

“Kass,” the Coonary woman tells her, her smile growing much bigger, holding a hand out in beckoning.

It is a very large hand. Mealla stares at it in a moment of rare uncertainty, mouthing the head of her wooden halla thoughtfully. Her gaze wanders downwards and her eyes widen at the huge swell of Kass’ belly.

“Why’s her tummy like that, Mama?” she wonders aloud, pointing in case her mother has missed the obvious.

“Kassaran is going to have a baby soon,” Mama explains, “Right now the baby is still growing in her tummy.”

“Did she…eat the baby?” Mealla asks with an air of slightly horrified awe. She does not think her mother would want her to be friends with someone who ate babies, but how else would the baby get in there?

Mama laughs and exchanges a few more words with the expecting mother, making her laugh too. Kass says something to Mealla, clearly expecting her mother to translate, a wide grin on her face and a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“She says this is what happens when you swallow too many melon seeds,” Mama informs her with a snicker.

Mealla’s face falls, suddenly remembering all the melon seeds she has likely ingested over the course of her life. She eyes the size of Kass’ belly with newfound worry; if a melon that big tried to grow inside of her, she thinks she would pop.

She makes a sound of slight dismay, and Mama quickly lifts her back into her arms for a kiss.

“Don’t worry, Little Heart,” she coos, “Kassaran was only teasing. Babies don’t come from melon seeds.”

“Then how did the baby get in her tummy?” Mealla demands, a little put out over being fooled so easily.

“Hm, there are lots of ways babies happen,” Mama says after a slight pause, possibly considering how best to phrase things, “The most common way is when someone with parts like Papa and someone with parts like me decide that they care for each other very deeply and want to raise a child together. Then they get permission from one of the Great Leaders, go through a few more steps here and there, and with any luck, after a few months- Poof! - they end up with a baby.”

“What about Nanae and Nenae?” she asks.

“Nanae and Nenae can have any sort of parts they want,” Mama reminds her, “So, of course, they would be able to help make a baby.”

“Like me?” Mealla grins, already guessing the answer.

“Like you!” Mama agrees, nuzzling her closer and pressing a series of kisses to her temple.

Mealla grows quiet for a moment, looking around the room as if she has just realized something.

“Does Kass’ baby have a Papa or a Nanae?” she wonders.

“I…I don’t know,” Mama admits, “Kassaran is feeling sad and a bit scared right now, and she doesn’t like to talk very much. Maybe when she has more friends, she’ll feel like telling us.”

“I could be her friend!” Mealla exclaims, but then she hesitates, remembering what Mama told her earlier about sad grownups wanting to be alone, “Do you think I could hug her? Would that be okay?”

“I think so,” Mama smiles at her, before saying a few more words in that weird Coonary speech. Kassaran all but beams at her, which she takes to be a very good sign, as she gets lowered back onto the floor and walks over for her hug.

Kass is very soft and warm, and Mealla thinks that this new baby is going to have a very good place for napping. She is wrapped up in so much fabric and long arms and bosom that she nearly drowns, but…it is sort of nice. Kass begins smoothing one of her large hands down her back and humming quietly in her ear. Comforting and sleepy.

She is going to be a good mama.

Mealla finds her gaze drifting down towards her belly again. It is not as smooshy as she had though it would be, from what she can tell. More like she really did swallow a melon.

Kass smiles down at her, asking her something she doesn’t understand and gently guiding her hand to rest against the swell of her abdomen. Mealla is a little confused, but lets her do as she likes, wondering what the question was. And then she feels it. 

Something in her belly is moving.

“It’s the baby?” Mealla asks, genuinely surprised. “Is it trying to get out? Is it stuck in there?”

Mama translates again and Kassaran laughs.

“She says that the baby hears us talking and wants to come play with you,” Mama tells her.

“Do I get to play with the baby when it comes?” she wonders, suddenly excited. Most of the people who come here with baby babies keep to themselves.

“If you are very careful and Kassaran says that it’s alright,” Mama replies, “Qunari babies are much bigger than ours, though, you probably won’t be able to hold them, Little Heart.”

“But I can still play!” Mealla insists, “I’ll share my old soft toys and be real careful and nice. Jus’ like petting Papa’s birds!”

“I think that might be alright,” Mama smiles at her. She talks to Kass again, who nods her head and puts her large hand over the top of Mealla’s. Moving it to a slightly different spot so the baby’s movement thumps against her palm.

“We’re gonna be friends,” she whispers to Kass’ belly. The baby kicks again, which she takes as a sign of agreement.  
~  
Kass seems to be in a much better mood by the time Mealla and her mother have to leave so she can spend a few hours with Papa, and Nenae if they don’t have to work. She thinks she must have done her Very Important Job well, because Mama is extra smiley and promises she can have a whole second dessert with her dinner, if she wants.

There is still something on her mind though.

“Mama, was I ever in your belly, like Kass’ baby?” she wonders. She doesn’t remember anything like that, but she imagines it would be mostly dark and wet. And boring.

Mama pauses, and her grip on her tightens for a moment. The air around them prickles with something like worry, and she wonders if she said something bad. She pats her cheek softly, trying to say sorry, even though she doesn’t know what she did wrong. Her mother shakes her head at her and smiles, but something about it is not happy, and Mealla thinks she might still be in trouble.

“I…was just hoping this was a talk we would have when you were a bit older, that’s all,” Mama explains with a sigh, “…you were never in my tummy, Little Heart.”

“Nanae or Nenae’s?” she asks instead. And then, because she is not quite sure, and does not want to leave out any possibilities, “…Papa’s?”

Mama shakes her head again.

“None of us grew you like Kassaran and her baby,” she explains slowly. She frowns slightly, as though trying to figure out how best to say the next part, “You know that Nanae and Nenae are…very similar, right?”

Mealla nods, she used to get them confused when she was younger.

“They came from different places behind the big mirror,” she says, remembering what Nenae had told her.

“That’s right,” Mama confirms with a nod, “Sometimes those different places I go to have different versions of someone we know living in them. Like Nanae or Papa or your sister.”

“What’s a ‘version’?” Mealla asks.

“It means a type, like…like an apple,” her mother replies, grabbling hold of the metaphor, “There are green apples and red apples, and they look a little different and they taste a little different, but at the end of the day, they are both still apples, aren’t they?” 

“Yellow apples, too!” Mealla chirps helpfully.

“You’re right!” Mama agrees, planting a kiss on her nose. She grows solemn again after a moment, shifting Mealla slightly in her arms, “Well…one of the places I went to beyond the mirror was…very sad. There was another version of me there, and…she asked me to take care of you.”

“And…I came from her tummy?” Mealla asks, struggling to keep up. “Did she make me all by herself, like Kass?”

“I think she had some help from another Nanae,” Mama says quietly. There is something very sad in the air, and Mealla doesn’t like it.

“Can…can I see them?” she wonders, slightly tearful at first before turning defiant, “I want to see them!”

“I’m sorry, baby, but…they’re gone,” her mother tells her, sounding a bit tearful herself.

“Gone where?” she asks, “When will they be back?”

“They…can’t come back, Mealla,” Mama says, the air around her rippling with sorrow, “Remember when one of Papa’s hatchlings fell out of their nest and didn’t move anymore? How upset he was? It’s like that.”

“You were there, why didn’t you help them?” she demands, hot tears starting to trail down her face, “Why didn’t you bring them here, like you brought me?”

“I was too late…” her mother tries to explain, but Mealla is done with excuses.

“Nenae would have saved them!” she exclaims angrily. She _knows_ they could have. Nenae can do anything, that is why so many people work for them. Because they are fast and clever and strong. They can do anything they want to.

“…perhaps you’re right.”  
~  
She does not talk to her mother the whole way to Papa and Nenae’s rooms. And when she gets there, she does not even kiss Papa hello. He seems genuinely surprised and upset about it, but Mealla finds that she is too angry to care.

Mama and Papa talk for a few minutes before she leaves, but Mealla ignores them, digging through her toy chest as loudly as possible. Big Sister Lavellan comes over to see her, but she doesn’t talk to her either.

She knows that her family is a lot bigger than some people’s. A lot of the kids in the camps only have a Mama and a Papa, and no Nanaes at all. Some don’t even have that much. But right now, it feels like she doesn’t have the right amount of parents. She is missing two, and they are hers, and she wants them.

Did they miss her? Were they sad when she left? Could she have helped them somehow if she had stayed? 

Papa sets her up with her tools for coloring, and makes several attempts to cajole her into talking about it with him, but she keeps her silence. Papa might not go on missions like Mama and Nenae do, but he is big, and probably strong. He could have helped, she is sure of it.

All of her parents say they love her, but they let her first Mama and Nanae go away without her. And they could have helped. They _should_ have helped. It is the first time that they seem to have failed her, and she’s not done blaming them yet.

Papa is not taking it well.

He is nearly in hysterics when someone comes to the door and calls him away to a meeting. He almost refuses to go, but Lavellan promises to stay and look after her. Mealla lets him kiss her goodbye, but doesn’t say anything.

Lavellan comes and sits with her. She doesn’t say anything at first, just quietly watches as she makes angry scribbles on her paper. After a while, she grabs a spare sheet and starts making her own doodles.

“You know…I was found out in the middle of the forest,” Lavellan tells her casually, “Papa and Nenae didn’t ‘make’ me, either.”

That gives her pause.

“Do you…remember your first parents?” Mealla wonders, “Did…were they the ones who left you out there?”

“I remember them, though not as much as I’d like to,” Lavellan tells her, “…not as much as I feel like I probably should. And…someone else left me out there, though I don’t think that was his intention.”

“It was an accident?” she asks, “…could Papa and Nenae have stopped it? Could they have taken you back to your other parents if you had asked?”

“My birth parents had gone away a long time before I met Nenae and Papa,” Lavellan tells her, fixing her with a steady gaze, “…Would you really want to leave all of us to go be where your other Nanae and Mama are from?”

“N-no!” Mealla declares, suddenly anxious, “I just- just… I want them. They’re mine, and I want them! Mama should have brought them, too!”

“…You know that your mama loves you very much, don’t you?” Lavellan asks her after a slight pause, “She would do anything for you, wouldn’t she?”

Mealla nods. Mama says she loves her all the time.

“Then don’t you think that she must have done everything she could to bring your other parents back here to be with you?”

Mealla stops, staring down at her angry drawing, thinking hard.

Mama’s job is helping people. She does not like it when other people are sad, like Kass and her soon to be baby. She especially does not like for Mealla or Nanae to be upset. Soft and shining, gentle singing in her ears until she falls asleep. The smell of lavender and the taste of honey and apple lingering on her mouth. Bedtime stories and lazy afternoon naps all together on the big bed. 

…Her mother would never do anything to make her sad on purpose.

She crawls up into her sister’s lap, already starting to cry. Lavellan rubs her back and hushes her, rocking slightly until she’s calmed down enough to talk again.

“She-she w-won’t be mad at me, will she?” Mealla finally manages to hiccup out after a few minutes, “Not if I say I’m sorry?”

“Of course not,” Lavellan assures her.

“Papa, too?” she checks.

“Papa, too.”  
~  
Mealla is very important.

She knows, because everyone says so. And when her parents come to see how she is feeling, she makes sure that they know she thinks they are all very important, too. 


	12. Da'Mi

Mealla is four the first time Nanae lets her hold a knife.

It is a very small weapon, but then, she is a very small girl. It gleams in Nanae’s hand when they hold it out for her to take, like a little silver fish. The smile she offers them in return is very big by comparison.

“Mine?” she wonders, taking it in one chubby fist and holding it up to catch the sunlight. They are sitting out in Papa’s garden while he and Mama and her other Nanae discuss ‘Adult Things’ indoors. There is a spot under a nice shady tree where she gets to keep all her outside toys, as well as a little boxed-in area filled with soft, color-changing sand.

Nanae has been helping her build and destroy sand structures for the last twenty minutes or so, but this seems like a definite improvement to the entertainment schedule. Mama and Papa have both been adamant in their refusal to allow her any attempts at stabbing things, even when she promises to be _really_ careful.

Nanae nods in response to her question, shadows briefly flickering out around them in the shape of large dark wings.

“For protection,” they explain, taking her hand in theirs and moving her fingers on the grip so she is holding it properly, ever mindful of their claws.

“For hunting!” Mealla declares, brandishing the blade with an expression of fierce delight.

Nanae blinks at her for a moment, tilting their head as though considering her assertion, before their mouth twitches upwards in what appears to be amusement.

“And just what sort of prey do you suppose you are going to vanquish with such a tool?” they ask, reaching out and adjusting her arm, moving it slowly in a demonstration of the correct method of slashing at an opponent.

“Dragons!” she chirps in reply, flourishing the knife wildly. She winces as she nicks the palm of her empty hand in the process, “Ow.”

The shadows around Nanae flare again as they reach out for her, pulling her into their lap to inspect the wound. She dutifully holds it out for their inspection, unafraid, even as their form ripples slightly in distress.

“S’okay, Nanae,” Mealla reassures them, patting carefully at their knee with the hand still holding the knife, “Doesn’t hurt.”

They seem to calm slightly at her words, healing the tiny cut a moment later and letting her return to her previous spot in the sandbox.

“Please be more careful,” they say afterwards, frowning slightly.

“Yes!” she promises earnestly, and then, after seeing that they still seem a bit unsettled by the whole thing, “Sorry, Nanae.”

They nod at her again, gaze piercing. After a few seconds, they reach out a hand and gently stroke at the long golden ringlets of her hair.

“…would you like to fight a dragon?” they wonder. 

“Yeah!” she gasps eagerly, wriggling slightly in uncontainable excitement.

Nanae scoops up various handfuls of different colored sand, arranging them carefully in front of Mealla until there are four legs, a body, a long neck and tail, a spikey head, and two large bat-like wings.

“A dragon,” they offer, “Its weakest points will be its eyes, its underbelly, and the thin skin of its wings.”

“It breathes fire?” she asks, extending an arm to poke experimentally at her foe with the little dagger.

“Lightning,” Nanae replies with a faint smirk. Mealla grins toothily.

She goes to work, haphazardly stabbing at the vulnerable areas Nanae had previously pointed out. After a few minutes, there is not much left of her dragon, so she just attacks whatever remnants there are left to be found. Wanting to make certain her prey has been thoroughly slain.

She is a bit sweaty by the end of things, and her hand is a little sore, but she sort of likes it. The long tendrils of her hair are falling in her face though, having finally managed to escape from the clips and ribbons Papa had put into it earlier that morning.

Papa loves her hair. It is very pale and fine, the mass of curls spilling almost all the way down to her bottom, even longer than Mama’s. And Papa in particular always seems pleased to style it and brush it and make it look ‘nice’.

But now it is in Mealla’s way. Sticky and damp and hanging in her face.

With barely a second thought, she reaches up, grabs a large handful of curls, and slices them clean from her head.

Nanae stares. Blinks, as though not comprehending. Moves over to see if she is hurt. And when she is not, they pull out a blade of their own and set about helping her even things out. 

Her other parents return from their chat a few minutes later to find their daughter with a short poof of hair barely longer than her Nanae’s.

Papa looks aghast. She holds out a handful of blonde locks by way of apology. If he likes them, he can have them, Mealla doesn’t mind.

Mama just laughs.

“You could have just _asked_ , Da’vhenan.”


	13. Separation Anxiety

Aili has been gone for three days.

Nightmare is tracking her absence. It is a new ritual, but they have done it the last few times that Aili has needed to leave for more than twenty-four hours. They track the time, with Mealla, and count the how much time is left before Aili is set to come back to them. Today they are doing it in their chambers, with counting beads. Nightmare’s wings are out, because they have been aching since midnight. Mealla’s voice is steady as she counts out how many beads are left.

“Eight,” she says. “Mamae is coming back in eight days! Eight is… three plus five more.”

“Yes. Good job,” they praise, which earns a smile. Mealla is good at counting, though she dislikes being made to sit still and do things. She wriggles around, right on cue. Job complete, so Nightmare sets her down onto the floor, and lets her scamper off to go and get her toys.

They stretch their back, and reach their wingtips up towards the ceiling of their chambers. Their other self had gone with Aili, for this trip. _Dangerous._ But too sensitive for Nightmare themselves to be along. Disguises were needed, and the world that they are visiting does not have many shapeshifters. They would have been too conspicuous, and too…

_Unstable._

Mealla plays with some of her toys in her room. They listen to her making sound effects, and stare at the beads on the table.

And then it seems to them that they blink, and lose time.

The chambers are quiet. The light coming through the windows has shifted angles, slightly. Nightmare sits up, rigidly straight, and reaches for the sense of Mealla’s heartbeat. But they cannot find it; it is not close by. Their own speeds up, and they stand up from their seat with enough force to topple their chair.

Where is Mealla?

“Mea?” they call, though they know she is not near enough to hear them. If she was, then they could hear her. They try to stretch their senses out, but the estate has been under renovations for the past few months, and they have not yet had time to build pathways through some of the altered segments of the Dreaming. There are gaps in their ability to push there senses through the estate, now, and with increasing alarm, they realize that they cannot sense their daughter anywhere.

_Where is the baby?!_

They leave their chambers, moving quickly. Thinking. New places. What if she went to one of the construction areas? She could have left the room while they were… blanking. There are traces of Mealla in the Dreaming, of course, but the echoes are too numerous for them to tell which are new. Still, they find themselves racing through halls with conjured ghosts of their daughter’s presence. Echoes of her moving and tottering around, some obviously too old just because of how small she is. She had a growth spurt. She is getting bigger. Nightmare chases some towards the renovated hallways, but none actually go that far. But there are vents that do, and Mealla is still small enough to climb through tiny spaces.

Nightmare rushes past people in the halls, ignoring their alarmed calls and questions, and does not stop until something bodily slams into them.

“Whoa, there! Hold up a moment!” an unfamiliar voice says. Strong arms grip them, clad in the estate’s guard mail. _Sentry._ Nightmare knows it, but the feel of the unwelcome hold on their person has them lashing out anyway, sending the figure staggering.

The man lets out a curse, and draws a weapon.

Nightmare reacts to the sound of a blade unsheathed, and extends a long, sharp-clawed arm out to disarm the guard. They are quick, and the man is not expecting it. The blade falls with a clatter, but the retaliatory punch that the guard sends their way is also unexpected. Nightmare hisses, and fights to regain their senses. Why are they fighting this man? They are looking for their baby. Mealla, baby. They do not have time for this.

“Wait-” they begin.

But their hesitance is costly. The guard pulls a short knife from his boot, and slashes at their hold him.

The flare of pain, the scent of blood, rushes over them. Nightmare freezes, and for a moment they are not in the hall, nor in the estate. They are not looking for Mealla, because Mealla does not exist yet. They are strapped to a table, with lyrium in their veins, and Andruil standing over them. Blade in hand, as their screams burn their throat, and they are helpless, _helpless,_ they cannot move, they cannot fight, they cannot… they _can’t…_

There is commotion. Movement. Nightmare does not recollect curling up into a ball in the corner of the room, but that is how they are when they feel something brush against them. They flinch, but the _thump-thump_ of a familiar heartbeat draws their attention up and up again, until they can hear the sound of a little voice.

“You _hurt_ Nanae!”

_Mealla._

Nightmare reaches out and swiftly pulls their baby into their arms, the scent of blood and the rush of conflicting impulses sending them into a panic. _Chambers. Safe._ They hurry, carrying Mealla, ignoring the childish sound of protest she makes until they get back to their rooms and can barricade them both inside. They check Mealla over for hurts. There is blood. But it is _their_ blood, only. Mealla is fine. No bruises, no bumps, no pain. She only looks distressed at their cut.

_So many cuts._

They should heal it, though. It is making Mealla upset, as she notes that they have a ‘bad owie’, and gingerly lifts their sleeve. They summon up the magic. It seems to relieve her as they do, and she kisses the sealed cut once they have managed, and then cuddles up against them. They hold her tight, and bury their nose into her hair, and try to regain their equilibrium by breathing in her scent and listening to her heartbeat. But it is not working like it should, their mind keeps _slipping._

“’M sorry, Nanae,” Mealla tells them, sniffing. “I was jus’ playing, I asked if I could go but you weren’ talking, an’ I, I… I jus’ wanted to play _splorers_ …”

She cries, then. Nightmare shushes her, and cradles her like when she was smaller, rocking them back and forth to offer comfort. Whatever she did wrong could not be as wrong as them losing track of her, but they cannot articulate the assurance. So they offer it without words, until they feel a pair of presences set off their proximity wards.

There are knocks at the door.

Nightmare tenses, and carries Mealla deeper into their chambers.

The knocking does not let up, though, and it is still audible from Mealla’s room. At length, she begins wriggling in their arms. But Nightmare does not let her go. It is _dangerous._ They… they cannot remember why, right now, but they know it is. There are sharp things. Andruil.

Andruil is out there.

She would hurt Mealla.

“ _Nanae_ ,” their daughter protests. “We gotta answer the door, it’s _Papae_ an’ Lava!”

“No,” they say, wrapping the shadows more securely around them. Their daughter looks up at them with worry, and they try to soothe her again. But she does not accept it so easily this time. She frowns at them, and reaches a small hand up to pat at their cheeks and forehead. And then realization seems to hit her, and she sucks in a deep breath.

And starts humming Aili’s song.

The familiar notes are not quite so easily carried by her little voice. But Nightmare finds themselves falling into the rhythm, anyway. The song Aili hums to soothe them. The one she sang to Mealla in her cradle, too. Soft and steady, old, and familiar. They had not been able to sing it when they had thought she was dead, but they had still heard it, in a sense. And Mealla knows it well. By the time she has gotten to the end of the tune, Nightmare recollect better where they are. Their sense of the wards is telling them that there are people out there, yes, but they are… they are known.

Thenvunin and Lavellan.

They let Mealla wriggle free of them, at last. Their arms going looser, as she takes them by the hand, and then begins to tug them towards the front entrance. Nightmare nearly snatches her back and withdraws again several times, but they manage to stop themselves. And then Mealla tells them to pick her up, and they do, and she reaches out and pulls the warded doors open from the inside. Heaving with more strength than they’d realized she had, until they take several swift steps back. Their nerves jangle, a little, when Thenvunin rushes over.

“Mealla!” he exclaims.

“Papae!” she replies. “A bad man stabbed Nanae!”

Thenvunin reaches for her, and Nightmare hesitates, but Mealla is calm and happy and wants to go. And so they let Thenvunin scoop her into his arms, as he frets over her declaration and fusses over her state, and then looks at Nightmare, too, with worry in his gaze. Lavellan is more reserved. She closes the door to the chambers - to their relief - and seals it for them again, and then comes and reaches gingerly for them.

“Uthvir?” she says. She only calls them that when she thinks they are too out-of-sorts to remember any other name.

They know that about her. They know things about Thenvunin, too. These are not dangerous people. These are family.

But still…

Nightmare moves away from her touch, and shakes their head.

“No,” they say. They are not certain if it is a denial or a warning, or simply an expression of their state, somehow. But Lavellan nods, as if she has gotten the message anyway. And even though Thenvunin also ventures a hand to them, he retracts it as soon as they flinch.

“Alright,” he says. “It is alright. Everyone had far too chaotic a morning. We shall just… find a quiet spot, and go sit.”

“That seems like a good idea,” Lavellan agrees.

They move through the chambers. Nightmare follows, to keep Mealla in their sight. Mealla, who asks Thenvunin in a bright, angry voice how someone challenges someone to a duel, because she wants to. Nightmare’s heart flips, despite the calmer, more rational voice that reminds them that Mealla is far too young to fight anything. But Thenvunin just says that she should let him champion her, and manages to talk Mealla into it, and Nightmare loses track of their actual words at that point. They can still hear the sounds, but the meaning escapes them. As if their mind can no longer connect the noise with language.

They hate when that happens. It makes their nerves crawl and their fears spike, and the room darkens. But everyone else remains calm, and after a time, they manage to settle into the sitting room. Lavellan leaves at one point, only to come back with a blanket that smells like Aili, and some of Mealla’s toys. She and Thenvunin sit and talk about something, then, their voices light and easy, while Nightmare sits with the blanket. Mealla settles into their lap to play with her dolls, still talking in words that they do not understand, but in tones that they do. When she lifts a doll to them, they know to kiss it. And when she hands them something, they hold it for her. After a time, Lavellan leaves again, and then comes back again with food. While she is gone, Thenvunin settles down with a book, and watches Nightmare and Mealla with concern.

The concern is alright, though. Nightmare is watchful as well. They all should be, if things are dangerous.

Eventually, they start making sense of the voices around them again. Something in them, that had felt rattled loose since midnight, starts to _click_ back into place one more. The ache in their wings fades, and that seems to help considerably with everything else. As they regain their equilibrium, embarrassment replaces paranoia - but not entirely.

They can tell that they are still on edge.

“How do you feel?” Lavellan asks them, quietly, as Thenvunin takes Mealla to the washroom. They are not so bothered that they need to follow, this time. They can still hear her heartbeat quite clearly.

It takes them several moments to muster up a response.

“Not well,” they admit.

She nods, as if she had expected that.

“One of is going to stay overnight, to help with Mealla,” she says. “Who would be better, me or Papae?”

Nightmare considers that, and lets out a long breath. Thenvunin they knew _before._ Sometimes that does more harm than good, though. They worry, at times, that they might hurt him, because they might think that they are _ordered_ to hurt him. Lavellan is less familiar, more likely to fall into a nebulous category of ‘unknown’, but sometimes that also means that trying to figure her out jogs their mind back into some semblance of order.

“You,” they decide.

“Alright,” she agrees. “Papae’s not going to like that, but I’ll convince him. Unless you think it should be both of us?”

They shake there head at that. No, too many. Their instincts are off, the more people there are, the harder it will be to keep track of things, and the more stressed they will become. They don’t have to explain, at least. Lavellan ventures a touch to their arm, and they manage to accept it. Briefly. When Mealla and Thenvunin get back, then, she takes her father aside. Thenvunin’s voice raises a few times, which makes Nightmare stiffen. But not enough to send them spiraling away again, and anyway, he does not resist Lavellan’s reasoning very much in the end.

He stays until evening, and then kisses Mealla goodnight. No one suggests taking her away. Which is good, because the one time they had tried that, Nightmare had not… done well. She is happy enough now, though, pleased at the attention she has gotten all day, as most everyone has played with her. Even if they did not let her go outside, as she wanted to. Lavellan takes over her lessons for the evening, and Nightmare sits, and finds themselves losing no more moments.

Night comes with anxiousness, though. Unnameable, as Lavellan and Mealla sleep, and Nightmare paces the main room, and sends odd, skittering signals out into the Dreaming. Their bond thrums with the pressure of their worry, and of Aili’s too. They can tell she is trying to keep calm, but also that she knows they have been panicking. She cannot come back, though.

_Come back._

They try not to beg her. This is important. They must manage without her, sometimes, if she is to have her life too, and they want that. And they _are_ managing. Their senses are improving. Mealla is safe. Everything is calm, and most of the estate is sleeping, and they have long since cleaned the dry blood from their arm. The phantom pain in their wings is just that. A phantom.

_Come back._

Even so.

Eight days is going to be a very long time.


	14. Bad Days

Mealla is five years old, and her nanae is having a bad day.

Sometimes Nanae has those. This one starts off with waking up in the big bed, and Nanae looking very far-away, and calling Mama _my lady._ They call Mealla _my lady,_ too, which makes her giggle because it is very silly. But their eyes are sad and their shape keeps going funny, and so after Mama finishes getting her dressed, she tells Mealla that she is going to be spending the day with Papa and Nenae instead.

When nanae has bad days, Mama gets sad.

“I can stay!” Mealla insists. “I can make Nanae feel better.”

Mama smiles at her.

“Yes, you are very good at that,” she says. “But Nanae needs to rest and be quiet, until they are less out-of-sorts. And besides, Papa and Nenae are looking forward to seeing you for breakfast!”

Well.

Mealla _does_ like having breakfast in the big hall. And if Nanae is just going to be resting…

“Okay,” she decides.

She kisses Nanae goodbye, and Mama tells Nanae to stay put, and they look scared when they say that they will. Mealla worries, but then Mama scoops her up and they sing songs all the way to the dining hall, where Papa takes her and starts helping her pick out her breakfast. Then Mama talks with Nenae a bit, and they give her a plate of warm buns and some honeyed milk, and tell Mealla to be good while Mama takes Nanae some breakfast, too.

“Mama is sad,” Mealla informs Papa. “Nanae is doing _my lady’s.”_

Papa smiles gently at her.

“Well, perhaps we can think of something to cheer them up?” he suggests.

“Okay!” Mealla agrees. That is a good idea! What would cheer Mama and Nanae up? Kisses usually work, but Mealla already tried that this morning. She frowns at her plate for a little bit, while Papa cuts up her fruit into slices. Nenae sits down on her other side, and some of the people on the other side of the table smile at her.

“Nenae,” she says. “What would make Mama and Nanae cheer up?”

Nenae is good at knowing this stuff.

“I doubt anything could _make_ them cheer up,” they tell her. “But maybe we could find them some gifts to help them along. Your mama and nanae both like books; we could go to the library, and see if we can find some for them. Distractions can be good, when people do not feel well.”

Mealla wrinkles her nose a bit. Nenae is right – Mama and Nanae _do_ both like books – but sometimes the library is boring. Although, sometimes it is really interesting, too. After a moment she eats some of the pear slices that Papa keeps urging her to, and agrees to go so long as Papa reads to her from one of the story books. Papa does good voices. Nenae promises to visit the library, too. Mealla’s not sure how it happens, but somehow she ends up doing her lesson on letters, first. Sitting up at the big table with Nenae and her little chalk, making smudges on her board and sometimes doodling instead of doing letters.

But then she gets to pick a story. She finds one about pirates, but Papa deems it ‘inappropriate’, and they pick out another one instead. Nenae goes to do work, then, and kisses them both, and Mealla listens to Papa make the sly voice for a wolf. But she has troubles focusing on the story. It is one they read before, and she knows the lines, and she likes it. But it is not very distracting.

“Papa,” she interrupts, at length.

He looks at her curiously.

“Do you and Nenae ever have bad days?” she wonders.

Mealla knows her family is odd. She knows she was born in another world, like some people are, with a Nanae and a Mama, but they are not the Nanae and the Mama she has now. And she knows that Nanae and Nenae are the same-but-not, that they come from different worlds, and are Different Versions. She knows that is why they look very similar, most of the time, and she knows, also, that bad things happened to all her parents. A Very Long Time Ago.

Papa pauses, and has to think about his answer.

After a minute, he closes the story book.

“We do,” he tells her. “Although for us, a bad day looks different. And sometimes we just have bad… moments.”

“Oh,” Mealla says, and thinks about it. “What do bad days look like when you and Nenae have them?”

She has not noticed them having bad days, but then, she does not see Papa and Nenae every day, the way she does Mama and Nanae.

“They look like normal days,” Papa tells her. “But quieter, and sadder. Sometimes… sometimes I cry. And sometimes your nenae needs space, and does not like to be touched. That is nothing for _you_ to worry about, though, my little heart. Even on our worst days, we all love you and want to look after you, so you should not pay it any mind at all.”

Mealla thinks some more, and nods in understanding. Papa looks sad, so, after a moment, she clambers over to his chair and gives him a kiss. It is easy to make Papa upset. He worries, a lot. But it is a different kind of upset from the sort Nanae gets, where they go all distant and funny-eyed, and their shape changes more. It is also different from the kind of upset that Mama gets, when she holds Mealla tight and goes all rigid, like a statue.

Mealla does not think she has really seen Nenae get upset. And maybe she has not _really_ seen Papa get upset, either, or maybe it is more that there is a deeper kind of upset. Like when Mealla is upset about not having honeyed buns at the dinner table, that is not like when she is upset because something is scary or someone was being mean.

“Sorry, Papa,” she says, because that is what she usually says when she upsets him.

Papa smiles, and shakes his head, and kisses the top of hers.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells her. “You can always ask me questions. Now, shall we get back to the book, or do you want to find another one?”

Mealla decides that she would like to find some books for Mama and Nanae instead, and so Papa goes with her, and they search along the shelves. Some of the library spirits offer helpful suggestions, or just come by to look at Mealla and make funny faces. They like to see her giggle. She bounds up and down between the rows of books along the floor that she is allowed in. There are some new ones from Far Away Through The Mirror, which means they came from more worlds, so nobody here might have seen them yet. Mama reads all kinds of languages, so Mealla finds her a book with a pretty lady with horns on the cover, and she finds Nanae a book with dragons on it, too, and does not worry too much about the shape of the letters inside.

Then it is time for playing outside, so Papa holds the books while Mealla skips through the gardens, and runs around with Kieran, who came to the estate a few weeks ago. Papa always worries because Kieran is a lot bigger than Mealla, because he is a _human_ and because he is three years older, too. But Kieran is nice, and so that is probably just fussy-Papa-worrying, Mealla thinks. They catch lizards in the garden and look at their markings, and Kieran makes magic fire, and Mealla gets some of the little pebbles on the ground to dance around like jumping beans.

Both of them get all muddy, too, so Papa takes them to get cleaned up, before Kieran’s Mama comes and gets him. Then it is time for lunch, and Mealla likes lunch. It might be her most favourite meal, because there are _pies_ at lunch. The dining hall does not let her down, either, and she finds they are serving fig pies and blueberry tarts and apple swirls with tops that are cut to look like roses, along with soups and salads and the usual things. Mealla stuffs herself until she is covered in crumbs and Papa sighs that she just _cannot_ keep clean, but Mealla thinks that this is what sleeves are for, and wipes her face and beams at him.

She takes some extra apples swirls, too, to bring back to Mama and Nanae. Mama likes apple swirls especially.

Papa offers to carry them, when they leave the dining hall, but Mealla shakes her head and carefully holds the little basket of them herself, determined as they make their way back to check in on her other parents.

When they get to the chambers, everything is quiet. The lights are dim, and the air feels like Nanae’s magic, but she can tell that they are not sleeping. She does not know _how_ , she just… can tell. Nanae feels different when they are sleeping. When they go _deep_ sleeping, anyway, and drift far away. Then everything about them is still and heavy, and not watching things anymore.

“Hello?” Papa calls out, in his gentle voice.

“Is it afternoon already?” Mama calls back. She comes and meets them in the front room, and smiles when Mealla gives her the basket of apple swirls. Her hair is down and she is in her soft clothes, so she might not have been outside at all yet today.

“How thoughtful! Thank you, little heart,” she says, and comes over for a hug. “Did you have a good morning?”

“Uh-huh,” Mealla says. “Kieran found a lizard with _six_ eyes, and only of ‘em was on its head, and I ate three whole blueberry tarts, and Papa says my shirt is never going to be the same but I like purple anyway. Is Nanae okay?”

“Nanae is fine,” Mama assures her, with relief in her voice. “They are just having a _little_ trouble keeping track of things, so we are having a quiet day.”

“Mealla picked out some books to help cheer you both up,” Papa says, and Mealla realizes she almost forgot. She exclaims a little, and goes and takes the books from him, so she can show Mama which one is for her and which one is for Nanae. Mama smiles and kisses her cheeks, and then tells her it is alright for her to go and see Nanae, while she and Papa have a talk. So Mealla takes the dragon book, and goes into the big bedroom.

Nanae is resting up by the pillows, using their Worry Stones that Nenae gave them. They are pretty little silver balls that go round and round in patterns with their magic. Mealla likes them, but Nanae stops doing it as she comes up to the side of the bed, and looks at her instead.

“Hi, Nanae,” she says.

They brush their fingertips across her cheek, and their nails go all round where they touch her.

“Hello, baby,” they reply.

Mealla smiles. She likes being ‘baby’ more than ‘my lady’, even though she is much too big to be a _real_ baby now. All her parents say that she is still _their_ baby for always, though, so that makes it different.

Smile still in place, Mealla clambers up onto the bed. Nanae helps her, and then curls an arm around her as she settles in at their side. She shows them the book, and they take it from her with their free hand, and look at the cover. Which is a very nice cover, Mealla thinks. There is a lot of shiny paint on the dragon’s scales, and the letters are very loop-y, even if she does not recognize them.

“Do you think dragons have bad days, Nanae?” Mealla wonders.

Nanae goes still, and quiet, and traces a sharp nail over the picture on the book.

“Yes,” they say.

Their voice sounds bad, though. Too far away. Mealla frowns, and pats their cheek. That makes them look at her, though, and then they seem to relax a little, and they snuggle her a bit. Doing that thing where they stick their nose in her curls and sniff at her until she giggles and worms away.

Mama says they remember stuff better when they smell it. Mealla tried sniffing a bunch of stuff for a whole week, to remember it better. All her favourite things.

“Do you want an apple swirl, Nanae?” she asks. “I gave them to Mama, so they might all be gone now.”

Nanae snickers.

They sound more like themselves when they do.

“They might be,” they agree. “Maybe you could go and see?”

“Okay!” Mealla agrees. She presses a kiss to their cheek, and wriggles down off of the bed, and bounds back out to find Mama still talking with Papa, anyway.

Mealla is not afraid that she will have bad days, she does not think. Even though they are sad things, and she dislikes them. She’s memorized a lot of smells, now, and she has her parents. Mama and Nanae, Papa and Nenae. When the bad days come, they always know what to do.

And Mealla is learning, more and more, to know what to do, too.

She takes the apple swirl in to Nanae, and cuddles them, and hopes they will feel better soon.


	15. Deliveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO MANY BABIES

Aili is the first one to go into labour, as the healers had predicted.

She is with Mealla when the pains start. Their grown daughter turns up in mid-morning, after breakfast, carrying her mother and looking somewhat wild around the eyes. A flurry of activity begins in short order; healers called for, as Aili is carried to the birthing room. Uthvir struggles to keep up, and then struggles again to justify their presence, when the healers decide early on into the proceedings that five extraneous adults is too many to have jostling elbows with them.

But their presence helps keep Aili calm, so after some debating and protestation and a flurry of whispered arguments, Uthvir finds themselves settled into a chair next to Aili’s bed. Nightmare on her other side, and Thenvunin fretting closer to the door, while their daughters are banished to the hall. Lavellan had taken it graciously, though they suspect she is standing just inside the hall; probably glowering at some vague spot in the distance, and trying to focus on the activities within the room. Mealla had protested more, but had eventually given way at Aili’s request.

Uthvir is privately glad. Fifty, they think, is still too young to be witnessing something like childbirth.

Especially when there is such a high potential for disaster. Uthvir has heard of twins, but never triplets. Even among spirits, such a multitude is rare. Among _births?_ They have since learned that it can indeed happen, but is very, very rare. Part of their mind is still boggling at the prospect. Adding in their own pregnancy, it means there will be four babies in total.

They keep one hand settled onto the swell of their own stomach, as Aili grips the other, and squeezes it tightly through the first round of contractions.

Birth is a mess. A stressful, harrowing mess, and Uthvir feels as though they are on the edge of their being the entire time. Watching Aili sweat and grow red-faced and increasingly pained. Worried, as the time drags on, and the healers confer and speak only in low, soothing voices. Thenvunin becomes the errand runner. Hurrying out to go and fetch ice chips, and keep their daughters informed of things, and get this or that which the healers or Aili require. Pillows and towels and sterile water. Nightmare remains closest to Aili, their gaze fixed on her stomach. Fingers gleaming, every so often, as they confirm that all three babies are moving and all their hearts are beating.

The first head to crown is tiny. A mess of dark hair and birthing fluids, smaller than Uthvir can recall either Lavellan or Mealla being. The healers whisk the baby off so quickly that Aili cries out at the same time the infant does, and Thenvunin rushes over, pale but visibly mustering his best, reassuring look.

“I will stay with them!” he promises.

“Aili,” the healer who has remained with her says. “You must stay calm and focus, there are two more to go. The first is fine, listen, you can hear them crying, the healers are just making sure of their health.”

Uthvir strains, trying to see the first baby as best they can without leaving Aili. But there are too many bodies in the way. The triplets have attracted attention from all sorts of corners, but in Mana’Din’s territories, at least, there are those from other worlds who have far more experience dealing with this sort of thing. Coming from places where it is less unlikely.

Fear intensely dislikes it, though. So many people, and so much chaos, and blood, and pain.

The second baby looks redder than the first, so flushed that for a moment Uthvir is terrified that it is somehow missing a layer of skin. But this one is also a bit bigger than the first, and cries more readily. Flailing tiny fists as the healers whisk it off, too, and this time it is Nightmare who pries themselves away to follow after the baby. Aili asks them to.

“Go make sure,” she pleads.

Uthvir nearly leverages themselves out of their chair to do it instead, but they are not fast enough. Nightmare goes, even as Thenvunin reappears. Holding a little bundle in his arms. Uthvir sees a tuft of dark ginger hair, but then the healer with Aili calls sharply for one of the others, and their attention diverts again.

The last babe comes out more easily than the first two. But it is _by far_ the smallest, and Uthvir’s heart clenches and the lights flicker in a rush of dread, as it fails to cry out.

“Why aren’t they crying?” Aili asks. Slightly delirious, at that point; riddled with pain and being whisked away, in turn, by the converging healers. She is bleeding too much. But still she struggles. “No, I have to – why can’t I hear three, there are _three_ , why can’t…?”

Uthvir gives her hand another squeeze, and gets up as swiftly as they are able to. Following the healers as they hurry the littlest baby off. Their voices raise in argument, and Aili calls out in distress. It pulls them in too many directions at once, and Nightmare hurries back over to her. Carrying another little bundle in their own arms, while Thenvunin pales with worry, and Fear whispers dreadfully that the third one might not have made it.

 _No,_ Uthvir thinks.

They can feel it. Not strongly, but with a laser-like focus that has them pushing forward, and bodily shoving and removing the healers, silently brooking no argument until they have the perilously small babe in their arms. Or hands, as it happens. The little body is too tiny to otherwise fit. They can feel it, though. The fluttering heartbeat.

They cannot say, later, just how they know what to do. But in the moment, it strikes them with such certainty that they do not even hesitate. They reach for their magic, and brush just the faintest, most delicate pulse of it over the babe’s stuttering heart. Coaxing a little more blood to struggling lungs, until the air cracks with a warbling cry. Barely loud enough to qualify. Weak, but true.

The entire room seems to exhale.

Uthvir relinquishes the babe _just_ long enough the healers to swaddle it, and then carries the third triplet determinedly back to Aili. Who is holding the first two, now, but who easily manages the third as well. Her own body healed – though it will require more, they think. But she looks amazed and relieved, and Uthvir feels something in them unclench in turn. The babe still in their own belly moves, as if eager to join the fussing, as Aili carefully presses kisses to each triplet’s head in turn. Lips brushing over ginger tufts, and then two wispy blondes. Nightmare leans in, as if trying to wrap around them all. They keep their wings in check, however, mindful of the need for delicacy. And Thenvunin settles a hand overtop the smallest babe’s head, and looks amazed.

“They are all alright,” he says, sagging. “Oh. All three.”

Uthvir sees it coming, and catches him before he faints.

~

Two weeks.

It takes two weeks for their own labour to come, after Aili’s does.

They are two very _hectic_ weeks. The healers mend Aili’s body well enough for her to move and manage things without much pain. But she still aches here and there, and needs to take it easy. The babies are small but the eldest two are strong, and the third one manages along, with careful watching and minding. Fortunately, there are more than enough hands to spare, even though it – somehow – still does not feel like it, at times.

Uthvir worries. As is their prerogative. The babies don’t get their names in a hurry, and remain ‘they’ for a long while. Both individually, and as a group. The eldest has dark ginger hair, and eyes that are a pale grey, as opposed to the other two’s blond hair and baby blues. Uthvir waits to see if any of the pale colours will settle into Aili’s violet, as Lavellan says that sometimes babies are born with blue or grey eyes but do not keep them. That does not seem to be the case, however, and the grey and blue remain.

The middle babe is the palest, but also the most round, and the first to look like what Uthvir generally thinks an infant _would_ look like. The eldest is not far behind on that count, but the youngest takes a while. Being so small and delicate, Uthvir worries most for them. And even when they are slightly less fraught, they find themselves taken by other, different worries. The eldest babe has the most varied colouring. And the middle one is pale. But the youngest has skin that looks somewhat metallic in the right light. A strong match for Uthvir’s, whenever they rest their hand on the babe’s tiny body. And their hair is wispy and gold, and their eyes are blue, blue, blue.

 _Falon’Din is dead,_ they remind themselves.

Still.

There are many more Falon’Din’s out there, in the wide landscape of interlocking worlds.

Uthvir tries to take their fair turns with the infants, but being the only person left who is heavily pregnant suddenly means they are subject to the combined fussing of all the other adults, plus a no-longer-pregnant Aili.

As they worry over the triplets’ crib, while Thenvunin sleeps off his own hours of caretaking, Aili slides up beside them, and rests her cheek against their shoulder. Nightmare has not slept since the labour, but has finally been coaxed into a nap by Mealla.

Aili’s hands are warm, where they settle atop Uthvir’s still-swollen stomach, and against their side.

“You should be sleeping,” she tells them, quietly. “And not standing on your sore ankles.”

“My ankles are _fine_ ,” Uthvir counters, whispering in turn. The ginger babe squirms a little, and they reach down, and settle a hand over their stomach. The triplets soothe at touches. They sleep in the crib only rarely; most of the time, they are being held in someone’s arms. Skin-on-skin, as one of the most experienced healers had been adamant that the contact would help them grow and stay healthy. They have scarcely seen so many half-naked elves wandering around outside a bath house, but the atmosphere has been soothing enough to distract even from Fear’s paranoid speculations, as often as not.

Aili manages to get them into the rocking chair next to the crib, though, and after a moment Uthvir sighs and surrenders. They are unwieldly and vulnerable, but at least their persistent terror has eased somewhat with the end of Aili’s own pregnancy. Now, at least, there are not _two_ of them struggling to move their distended, unarmoured forms.

Their own little guest kicks out towards their back, and they wince at the pain. Aili does not hesitate, just settles her own hands over the front of their stomach, and starts murmuring until the baby shifts towards the sound of her voice.

“There we go,” she says. “No pulverizing Nenae’s back, little one.”

Uthvir lets out a breath, and shifts as they feel another ache. The baby kicking in some odd direction? They contemplate it, as Aili settles at the foot of the rocking chair.

They give her a _look._

“You are still healing,” they remind her.

She waves them off.

“The floor is warm,” she says. “And comfortable enough. Did you know that your knees are swollen?”

“…Perhaps,” they admit.

She tuts at them, and starts brushing a few light healing charms up and down their legs. Which, admittedly, feels far more relieving than they might have guessed. Discomfort has become a constant companion, enough so that they have begun to simply tune most of it out. As best they can, anyway. But it is possible they have taken that a little too far, in the rush to look after the newborns, as Aili’s ministrations relieve far more tension than they might have guessed. They sigh, and then wince as the relief in their legs seems to make them more aware of the ache in their back.

Aili hums and brushes her hands over them, until there comes a telltale cry from the crib.

Then she presses a kiss to one of their knees, and gets up. Murmuring at them to stay put, as she goes to soothe or tend to the babies. Whatever they need. Sometimes it’s as simple as picking one up, just to keep their fussing from disturbing the others. Uthvir murmurs a reminder of the extra milk in the preserving chest by the door, and then settles their own hands onto their stomach, as their guest moves around more.

The baby has been restless today.

Another pain works its way through them, and they begin to entertain a suspicion. One which solidifies further when, as Aili sets about feeding the triplets, Uthvir’s alternate self makes their way into the room. And, rather than making a direct line for the babies, Nightmare heads towards _them_ instead.

Time has asserted some differences between the two of them. Some deliberate, others seeming to happen more of their own accord. Uthvir wears their hair longer. Nightmare has permitted their eyes to revert to their natural blue. But the similarities in their countenances remain noteworthy, and Uthvir feels that odd rush of disquieting affinity that exists between them, as their counterpart looks them over.

“You are going into labour,” Nightmare pronounces.

They let out a breath, and fight the rush of fear that the confirmation inspires.

“I was worried of that,” they murmur, as Aiil’s head whips up, and the baby in her arms makes a slight sound of protest when the nipple is jarred from their mouth.

“What?!” she asks.

“Stay here,” Nightmare says. “I will go wake Thenvunin.”

Aili heads over to them, but also has to go back to feeding the baby. She is using a bottle, fortunately, so it does not impede her as much as it otherwise might have, as she reaches out and brushes a hand over their stomach.

Thenvunin arrives, then, and in the subsequent fretting, the other two babies wake up and start to cry. There is a rush of disagreements, then. Nightmare thinks that Aili should stay with the babies, Lavellan, and Mealla, since it’s the midst of late-night feedings, while they and Thenvunin take Uthvir to the healers. But Aili is adamant that she go along, and when Lavellan comes in, she seems equally reluctant to be left out. Mealla is, for once, less stubborn over things, and when the dust has settled, she and Nightmare stay with the triplets, whilst Thenvunin, Aili, and Lavellan all escort Uthvir to the healers.

This involves Thenvunin lifting Uthvir up and bodily carrying them a good ways, while he murmurs barely-coherent reassurances to them, and obviously fights his own nerves.

Uthvir is not supposed to be due for another few weeks yet, after all. Their own guest was, theoretically, going to have more time to grow than the triplets. Less crowding, after all – though Uthvir already feels crowded enough as it is. But they find themselves oddly calm about that aspect of things. Their guest just wants to come and join the others, they think. To not be left out any longer.

Their labour is still unpleasant. But comparatively smooth. Thenvunin faints, again, after marvelling at the baby which shares his blood, and Uthvir blinks down at another set of blue eyes. Tufts of fair hair. Somehow, none of the infants have been any less enthralling for having come in such a multitude. Lavellan helps her Papae onto one of the spare beds, and Aili takes the little one from their reluctant arms, as the healers move in to finally get their body back in working order.

And oh, _that_ is a tremendous relief. Uthvir can put up with not being able to see their youngest for the time it takes to have their stomach mended, and their tears closed, and the pain eased away in one last rush of mingled blood and magic.

By late morning, they are able to walk back home. And there are _four_ new babes expecting lunch, rather than three.

~

Einin. Ardal. Oisin. Virevas.

Virevas beats Ardal out as the biggest baby in short order. By the time a few months have gone by, though, all four have grown into their cuteness, and their eager curiosity for the world around them. Visually, the triplets are often mistakenly assumed to be Ardal, Oisin, and Virevas, as they are the fair-haired lot, and Einin’s ginger curls set her apart. But there is a certain commonality to the triplets’ faces that makes Uthvir think it is obvious that Virevas has the different bloodline. They are all round little babies, of course, but Virevas shows a lot of her relation to Thenvunin in her countenance, and none of the other three do.

She and Ardal are the loudest criers, too. Einin tends to sniffle, instead, and Oisin warbles, like an upset baby halla. He is the most prone to coughs and breathlessness, and has to be watched most carefully whenever he eats. Sometimes, his heartbeat will flutter; and Uthvir and Nightmare will both zero in on him, as they pick up on it, and make certain it is not faltering as it had done when he was born.

Uthvir loves all the babies with a ferocity that cannot surprise them, not after Lavellan and Mealla, but can still be overwhelming, at times. Lavellan, of course, had most of her personality already squared away by the time they met. But Mealla had also seemed to express much of herself from the start, and the four new babies do not take long at all to begin making their own quirks known, either.

Virevas is the most proprietary over attention. She likes having at least one person paying her attention at all times, and she dislikes having it divided, and will cry or fuss even when nothing is the matter if whoever is with her is not giving her their complete focus. Her eyes settle into Thenvunin’s green, and she is also the most picky about how she is fed. And who she wants to do various things with, although her preferences can be inconsistent.

Einin is the quiet one. The one most likely to wake up without necessarily announcing it, and also the most likely to close her tiny fists over some stray toy or piece of jewellery and stuff it into her mouth before anyone can stop her. The first time they take the babies out into the garden, all together, Uthvir holds Einin, and learns very quickly how to tell when she has seen a bug, and is about to grab it and attempt to put it into her mouth.

They admire her hunting inclinations, but they also do not want her eating bugs. She is not big enough for solids yet.

Ardal is the one who starts making talk-like noises first. They are not _nearly_ words, of course, but his cries swiftly taper off into babble, and he is also the first one to laugh. He might be the palest, but apart from that, Uthvir can see in him an uncanny resemblance to his mother. It might change as he gets older, but they suspect not. Even the curious little puffs of his emotions remind them of her, and of how Mealla was at that age, too.

Oisin looks like Glory. Uthvir’s luck has run out in terms of having children avoid that, and while they try not to worry over it, they do find themselves hoping he will outgrow it somehow. While he does not protest things as loudly or vociferously as Virevas, he is even more clingy, and the first time Uthvir hears him wail as if he has been struck is when Thenvunin gently stops him from trying to grab Screecher’s feathers.

The first time they travel anywhere significant with the babes, they are eight months old.

Of an age, it is determined, where they can be safely moved. Keeping so many little ones at the Hidden Estate has proved untenable. There are too many unknown variables, and too much potential for strange or dangerous people to come pouring in through the interworld eluvian at any moment. Aili intends to take a break from her work, of course, to help care for the babies, and Uthvir and Thenvunin have obtained their own leave time well in advance. The plans were technically made before the babies were born. There is a settlement not too far from Daran. Smaller than the city, mostly oriented around farming, with just one eluvian to its name. Lavellan and Mealla are mainly responsible for setting up the housing there. Uthvir spends a great deal of their credit to commission the new building, but they end up having to trust their daughters to see to the details of the actual construction, as travelling through the crossroads had become too nauseating to endure just a few months into their pregnancy.

Bundling up the babies for travel is a long and paranoid affair. They use chest harnesses, and each secure one to their front, after most of the luggage has already been delivered. Mealla walks at the head of their procession, and Lavellan takes up the rear, to ensure that none of the curious onlookers they pass are able to harass them.

Uthvir takes Virevas, who peers curiously at everything and seems largely undisturbed by the Crossroads. Nightmare has Oisin, who hiccups, but mostly from over-excitement. Aili takes Einin, while Thenvunin has Ardal, and they seem to be their normal, intrigued little selves for most of the trip. Until they have nearly reached the end, and Oisin and Einin start fussing in a way that implies they have endured exposure to the crossroads for longer than they can handle.

The group veers off to the first gate they reach, as Oisin’s hiccups take on a concerning note, and end up stopping at a little village near the borders with Ghilan’nain territories.

To say that Uthvir and Nightmare do not like the locale is an understatement, but it is actually Aili who seems the most perturbed.

At first, they think it is a matter of the location. The waystation they rest at is a sheltered area, with a small dining hall and some stables, clean and nice enough for Mana’Din’s territories to afford some environmental charms. The babies settle enough to eat, and attract a great deal of attention from the locals. A few of whom are wearing Ghilan’nain’s vallaslins. A merchant hub, they think. There are a couple of places it could be, but Uthvir is not terribly familiar with the region, and the names escape them. Geographically, it is quite far from Daran. But the currents of the crossroads move differently, and so it is also only a few stops from their intended destination.

They have settled in at one of the waystation tables, near to a flowering pear tree, and are feeding the babies when a couple approaches their group. The pair are wearing Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin, and look fairly well-dressed. Lavellan and Mealla have left to get food for the adults of their party, but even so, Uthvir is a little surprised when Aili settles Einin into Thenvunin’s lap, and murmurs a soft ‘let me handle this’, before she stands up.

“Aili?” one of the unfamiliar elves asks.

The tension around the table immediately rockets skyward.

Aili only musters a politely bewildered expression, however.

“Aili…? I think I have a relative by that name,” she says. “But I am afraid you have the wrong person. Can we help you with something?”

The couple glance towards one another. The man of the pair frowns, but their auras are quite closed. The babies pick up on the strange atmosphere, of course. Uthvir gently shushes Virevas as she starts to make little sounds of complaint. Thenvunin bounces both of his knees, to keep Einin and Ardal distracted, and Nightmare rocks Oisin, and watches the couple with intent. No clouds move across the sky, but things darken a little bit anyway.

“So many children,” the woman of the pair finally murmurs. Looking at the babies. “How could you possibly have so many all together at once?”

Aili smiles a smile that does not reach her eyes.

“We find it is safer to move infants in groups,” she says. “But for their sake, please do keep a distance. Travelling is stressful enough for little ones. They are not here to put on a show.”

The man’s frown deepens.

“What are you moving them for? Where are they going to?” he asks.

“That is not your business,” Aili replies. A hint of a true edge coming into her tone. “Now, move along.”

Uthvir braces themselves, as the couple looks as if they might be building their way towards an argument. But at that moment, Lavellan and Mealla return. Arms burdened with trays, and hips heavy with the weapons they brought. Still, the woman of the pair hesitates a moment longer. Scrutinizing Aili again.

“Is one of them yours?” she asks.

Aili just smiles, tightly, and does not answer.

When the couple finally moves off, the babies are distressed by the odd atmosphere. Not volatile enough to really upset them, but tense enough to confuse them and make them wary. They shift around their charges, hoping to distract them with the change. Uthvir hands Virevas to Aili, and takes a turn with Oisin, while Thenvunin keeps Einin but relinquishes Ardal to Nightmare. When they get up to leave, however, Uthvir takes off their harness, and puts it and Oisin on Mealla instead.

“I shall take point the rest of the way,” they decide.

Aili doesn’t say as much, but some of the tension in her shoulders eases, just a little.

They get the babies to their new home without any further incident, and Uthvir relaxes – just a little – as they see that the place is suited to their needs. Nestled close to the settlement’s amenities, without being right in the middle of everything. Near enough to Daran for easy day trips, or even longer treks down the main road to the city. Their new home is entirely furnished, of course. And well worth the cost, they think, as they run a hand down walls that are perfectly designed for their style of warding, and assess garden walls that are high and steep and thick.

Not quite so secure as a palace, in terms of structure. But they will not have to share it with anyone else, either.

They assess the grounds, as the babies are brought in, and settled into the nursery for their naps. They each have their own crib, but no one is surprised when attempting to lay them down by themselves produces sleepy, incoherent complaints, and a refusal to settle in. Uthvir does not think the individual cribs will see much use, as they finish their rounds, and find the babies divided between Aili and Thenvunin’s beds instead. Aili curled around Oisin and Ardal, as Nightmare casts the room in cool shadows, and keeps one hand on Oisin’s chest. But when Uthvir shoots them a questioning glance, they signal no trouble. Thenvunin they find napping with Einin and Virevas and Lavellan. Tiny daughters snuggled up between their eldest sister and their Papae.

Uthvir takes in the scene for a moment, before they head back into the main room. Mealla is there. Spread out onto one of the sofas, and catching her breath.

“I am beginning to see why most people only ever have the _one_ baby at a time,” she says, tiredly.

Uthvir feels a similar tiredness in them. They head over, and brush some of her curls back. Tapping her cheek affectionately.

“We might need more people,” they admit, with a rueful chuckle. “After all, it took all four of us just to keep track of _you.”_

Mealla grins up at them.

“And you barely even managed it,” she replies, unrepentant. “Although, now you do have me to help, as a responsible adult.”

“Mm. And you have been a marvelous help so far,” they acknowledge, sincerely. Taking another pointed look around the house.

Their house.

What a strange thing to have. A house just for them and theirs. Not a room in a palace, or an apartment in the city. But their own whole little palace of sorts. With enough space for them, and only them. Four parents and six children. Aili had been rather firmly against the notion of making enough space for guests. She does not want Pride to stay and visit, and Uthvir cannot blame her, even if it means Lavellan will probably be coming and going much more.

Mealla squirms a little at the praise, and shrugs.

“What are big sisters for?” she replies, before sitting up.

Uthvir settles onto the couch next to her. They have set some preliminary wards. Enough to let them catch their breath. They strip off some of their excess armour, though they were not wearing much to begin with, and settle in next to their daughter.

Mealla sighs, and sags against their shoulder.

“I’m glad you and Mamae are done being pregnant, though,” she admits. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you probably shouldn’t do it again. Six kids is enough. You probably set a record or something.”

Uthvir snorts.

“Duly noted,” they agree.


	16. Happiness

It is a warm lazy afternoon, and the triplets and Virevas are all about ten months old. They are all beginning to settle into their new home, and their new life. Although it is not _too_ different from the way they had been living at the Hidden Estate.

Aili returns from a quick trip to the market in town to a relatively quiet house. Uthvir and Mealla have gone to Daran for a few brief meetings about the new security measures around Mana'Din’s palace, and discussions on training for some of their newer agents. And Lavellan is visiting with Pride, which she has mixed feelings about. Lavellan was already grown by the time she became a part of her family, but she is still protective of her welfare, and while he is not evil, per se, her chosen paramour is…dangerous. Aili would prefer to keep him well away from all of them, but she can respect the fact that Lavellan is old enough to be making her own decisions about her love life.

It doesn’t mean she has to like it, however. 

There are sounds of loud delighted squealing and vigorous splashing that leads her to believe that Thenvunin is in the process of attempting to bathe at least two of the children. And by the sounds of the voices she can hear, one of them is likely Ardal, which means he has his work cut out for him. She considers joining him immediately and seeing if he needs an extra pair of hands, but she is still wearing some light armor and a few concealed blades about her person, and she should probably remove them before handling anyone with soft delicate baby skin.

Her bedroom is simple, but airy; done over in cool blues and soft creams and accents in bronze. There are three large sunny windows enchanted to look out over the paddock for the halla back at the Hidden Estate. A large meadow full of wildflowers surrounded by tall trees and distant mountains. All of her furniture is curved and organically shaped, with touches of delicate leaf and floral patterns here and there. Not a harsh color or sharp corner in sight. The entire space seems to radiate an aura of calm. 

And when she opens the door to her room on this day, she is met with the sight of Vhenan lounging in something of a small pillow fortress they have built across the expanse of her bed, with a baby tucked securely under each arm. Einin and Oisin, curled against the warm bare skin of their nanae’s chest, sleeping soundly. They have their own bedroom, of course, but they tend to only use it for their Deep Sleeps, and the storage of anything that could potentially be hazardous to infants. So, they end up sleeping with her more often than not. Usually with at least one of their children nestled between them, safe and cozy. 

She smiles warmly, trailing silent footsteps into the room, and doing her best to remove the outer layers of her gear without making too much noise. She doubts that Uthvir is truly sleeping, though their eyes are closed at the moment. However, the scene is such a lovely one that it seems almost a crime to intrude on it. After all they have been through, the suffering and separation, and being lost to one another in almost every way they could be, to see them here, like this, in their own home, with their own children, is…miraculous. More than she had ever truly let herself hope for.

When she is down to her soft layers, she walks closer to the bed, moving a few pillows over so that she can slide onto the mattress beside them. A serene sort of happiness suffuses the air around her, as she reaches over to brush a few strands of hair back from Uthvir’s face. They blink open their eyes to look at her, and she is caught for a moment, as she still is sometimes, by the bright sky blue of their gaze. Still expecting brown, after all these years.

“Have they had their lunch yet?” Aili asks quietly, carefully pulling Einin into her arms as she snuggles in beside them.

“About a half an hour ago,” Nightmare confirms, “It seemed to make these two sleepy, but Ardal began throwing his sweet potatoes at one point, and then Virevas followed suit with her mashed peas. So, Thenvunin decided that he should clean them off before trying to put them down for a nap.”

“It did sound like there was a lot of ruckus going on in there,” Aili hums, “Should I go lend him a hand?”

“They are having fun,” they reply, “No one is worried or upset. Although, I suspect Thenvunin is likely fussing about something or another, as that is his usual state of being. Stay here with me. I have two children to wrangle as well, you know.”

“Does he really not need the help, or are you just angling for a bit of alone time?” Aili wonders with a faint grin.

“It cannot be both?” Uthvir wonders with the beginnings of a smirk, reaching their free hand over and pulling the tie off the end of her braid. Carefully unravelling it until her hair is tumbling across her shoulders in long golden waves. “Not that we are precisely alone at the moment.”

“As close to it as we are likely to be for a long while,” Aili replies with a pleased sigh, pressing a light kiss into the dark red curls on her little daughter’s head.

Vhenan hums in agreement, seeming content to simply lay there with her and two of their children, slowly running fingers through her hair. She studies their face for a moment, pensive, as she sometimes is when they actually catch a moment to breathe. They have all endured such hardship to reach this place, this peace, and yet she is not entirely certain…

“Are you happy?” Aili asks in a low whisper, “I mean… I can tell that you aren’t especially upset by this turn of events, and I know that you love all of our children, but… We never really talked about…any of this. Having children and essentially moving to the country. I always knew I wanted to be with you, marry you if I could, but even though I wanted it, I thought that hoping for children would be too much. So, I never mentioned it.”

“I had my suspicions,” they admit, shifting close enough to nuzzle their nose into her hair a little, “Your desires have always been a bit…transparent.”

Aili makes a face at them.

“It is one of your most endearing qualities, I assure you,” Uthvir smirks, “Although, it did cause some me concern here and there over the years. Since there seemed to be such a high chance of discovery. None of it seemed capable of convincing me that you were not worth the risk, however.”

She leans in a bit to press a kiss against their lips for that.

“It did sort of end in disaster, or at least…it seemed like it had. For a long time. I’m not certain I would change anything though, given the current outcome,” Aili sighs. “And you didn’t really answer my question. Did you want this at all? Are you happy?”

“I am always happy to be where you are,” they tell her with enough frankness that color rises in her cheeks, “I…never really considered having children, in the time before. I did not think I would be a particularly good parent, given my background. And Andruil’s palace would not have been a safe place to raise them, even if she had miraculously granted us permission. Just being with you was almost more than I had dared to dream of. To find a person who would accept me so completely, even with all I might be lacking… I wanted it, but I did not truly think it would happen. And when it did, wishing for anything more almost seemed…selfish. Greedy. As if we might be punished for taking more than our share. …Perhaps we were.”

They close their eyes, and press their nose into the curve of her neck, breathing her in deep.

“When you were gone… When I could no longer feel your heart attached to mine, my only wish was to have you back,” they breathe out against her skin, “But when you placed Mealla in my arms that first night… I knew she was ours, confused as I was, and I never wanted to let her go. It is a little overwhelming, at times, to be a parent, but I would not give it up. I would not exchange it for anything else I might gain. And when we learned about the new babies, I was worried for you, but excited to meet them, too. Our children are a small, glorious horde.”

“Then…you _are_ happy?” Aili presses, running her free hand down their side to squeeze at their hip at little. Tender and just the tiniest bit possessive.

“Entirely,” they hum in reply, shifting their arm a bit when Oisin makes a slight sound of discomfort in his sleep.

“Good,"Aili says with a deep relieved sigh, curling into them further and tangling their legs together just a bit, "I am too.” 


	17. A Near Miss

Sometimes, Nightmare’s joints still ache with the phantom pains of having been rent limb from limb.

There is no physical reason for them to. They have not scarred along the seams of their being. There are a few places, internally, where their muscles are more prone to knotting and cramping and over-extending more easily than they do on their counterpart. But the pains that they get sometimes are more like the remnants of memories. Nightmare’s long, bad dream asserting itself into reality, as its nature might encourage.

Bad thoughts can bring it about.

Today’s bad thought had come upon them while they were helping Thenvunin clean up the back garden. Their house has two garden spaces; a small one out front, for entertaining, and a larger one at the back, for Thenvunin’s birds and Aili’s apple tree and other, more private things. Thenvunin had begun to hum, as he often did while he looked after his birds. And Nightmare had thought about the time they had killed him. In another life, and another world. The memory of sinking their flesh past his defences, watching the life leave his eyes, had persisted until they had been forced to excuse themselves.

They had killed him.

Not that Thenvunin, surely. But a Thenvunin. On Andruil’s orders and with their mind already mostly scattered, but it was still their hand which had held the weapon. Their gaze found their counterpart’s as they came back inside, and the other Uthvir lifted up one of the babies – Oisin – and headed out to the garden in their stead.

Even in that life, in the one where they had managed to look after him, Uthvir had brought Thenvunin to grief and harm. And Nightmare had not been able to keep Aili from suffering, either. She had lived, yes, but in many worlds she had not. And she had been alone, and had lost so much, and Nightmare had done nothing.

Will they really be able to protect their children, too?

Is it only foolish to think so?

They retreat to their chambers, and seal the door. It is not good for the little ones to see them when they are like this. They fold themselves into a corner of their room, and darken the lights, and feel all their jagged edges and torn spaces. Even in this, they are a liability. Even now, there are times when their mind becomes disjointed, and they are uncertain of their reality. But at least they can tell when it is happening, now. At least they are coherent enough to anchor themselves, and to not lose all sense of where they are or who they are. The absence of the Veil means that their disorientation is more like drifting. Less like having knives attempt to pry the Fear from their bones.

Their joins hurt. Their shoulders ache. Their back feels raw. But they are still in their own skin, as unpleasant as it might be.

They have not been in their space for long when the door opens. Only one person can open it, but they still withdraw a little more, and zero in on the sense of the wards flickering. The sound of the latch turning.

Aili slips quietly into the room, and Nightmare lets their head tip back against the alcove wall behind them.

Only once she has shut the door behind her again, though.

“Sorry,” they manage. With four babies to look after, vanishing from their responsibilities is a significant inconvenience. Particularly nowadays, with the little ones getting big enough to crawl. And Lavellan is still visiting with Pride, so they are more shorthanded than usual anyway.

“No, don’t be,” Aili nevertheless says. She has a jar of familiar-smelling salve in her hand, and a knowing look in her gaze. This bad habit of theirs is long established by now. “Everything is fine. Mealla set out the play mat, and Einin, Ardal, and Virevas are all happily climbing over one another. Oisin has a little bit of a cough, but he’s fine. Uthvir and Thenvunin are watching him closely.”

Nightmare lets out a breath.

“And now you have come to look after me,” they deduce.

Aili moves into their corner, and settles a hand onto their cheek.

“I like looking after you,” she tells them. Worried, but also comfortable enough. They have danced this dance before. And so she asks them the usual questions.

“You remember where we are?”

Nightmare hums.

“In our new little house, which is not so little, and is in the village of Bel’thyl. Near to Daran,” they confirm. “You are Aili, and I am Uthvir, who is officially going by ‘Uthlin’, and unofficially called ‘Nightmare’.”

She smiles at them.

“Babies’ names?” she asks.

“Mealla, Einin, Ardal, Oisin, Virevas, and sometimes Lavellan,” they answer.

Another nod, and then Aili ventures a hand towards their collar. When they do not object, she settles down onto their lap, and starts undoing the straps for their armour. She knows what hurts them, usually, when they get this way. And today they are not so raw as to turn aside her offered comforts. Instead, they settle their own hands against her lower back, and sigh.

“What happened?” she asks, before pressing a soft kiss to their lips.

They work their touch up underneath her tunic. Seeking the warmth of her skin.

“…I remembered killing Thenvunin,” they admit.

Aili pauses for a moment. Then she closes her eyes, and rests her forehead against their own.

“Ah,” she says.

“Changing worlds does not mean I no longer did it,” they say. But they wish that it did.

“Andruil did it,” Aili tells them. Her voice is assured, not angry; but they can feel her anger, trying not to pass through the bonds between them. She always becomes angry when they mention the things that they did, back Before. Nightmare cannot help but feel it as a displeasure with them, no matter how many times she has assured them otherwise. It is easier to think of what happened as being entirely Andruil’s doing. But they made their own choices as well. They own their nature, the one that preferences their survival above all other things.

It is a vicious and ignoble nature, at times. Cowardly.

“Stop that,” Aili chides them, gently. Their recriminations have become apparent, it seems. She gives them another kiss, and Nightmare relents. There is nothing served by it, in the end. They cannot undo what has been done.

Aili’s fingers deftly pull away their outer layer of armour. She is working the jar of salve open – the warming sort, with eases muscle tension and makes their skin tingle in a way that generally distracts from the aches that no healing spell can truly mend – when they feel one of their emergency wards go off.

They stiffen, and the ceiling turns an alarming shade of orange overhead.

Someone has carried one of the babies past the proximity wards – someone who has no permission to do such a thing.

Aili looks at them, and then they are both scrambling. Not bothering with their discarded armour as they hurry from Nightmare’s room. The first thing they are aware of is the sound of Oisin coughing. The other Uthvir has him, and their own aura is snapping outwards even as they ease a healing spell into his chest with careful precision.

“The garden,” they say. “Someone lit incense near the back wall, and it set him off. I brought him in before the alarm went.”

They are tensed, and Nightmare feels their shared tension as they hurry out with Aili not a step behind them. Their senses expand, sharp and heightened by their terror, but sticking to the basics at first. Garden. Mealla. Einin and Virevas, both of them starting to react to their older sister’s visible upset as she holds them. Thenvunin has taken on his swan form, and is heading over the back wall.

“Where is Ardal?” Aili asks, even as they think it.

Someone has taken him past the perimeter. That must have been what set off the wards. If they climbed over the walls, it would have been conspicuous, but Nightmare and Thenuvnin were cleaning the garden before their lapse had them leaving. They look, and see a collection of branch clippings and plant detritus, piled up for disposal; high enough and near enough to one of the larger trees that someone could have concealed their entry and exit with it. Nightmare’s wings flare out, and they leap over the tree, and focus on the trail of orange footprints that they can now see dispersing from the perimeter wards.

It only takes them a few minutes, in the end, to find the two figures, heading swiftly for a cart near the village wilds. One of them is carrying a basket, large enough to conceal and infant.

Nightmare descends on them.

They knock the unburdened figure flat, and pin him to the ground with a spell that they typically reserve for more recreational pastimes. The woman sees them, and calls up a barrier. Too rigid; Nightmare is about to shatter it when it is broken by another spell. A familiar arc of gold-limned magic that bursts out of Aili’s fingertips, followed by an eruption of roots that break out of the ground at the woman’s feet, and trap her in place.

Nightmare pulls the basket from her. She tries to resist, but her strength is not a match for theirs.

The basket is quiet.

They hurriedly open the top.

Ardal stares up at them. Unperturbed, aura mostly playful. Playing a game, he must think. He smiles and reaches his hands towards them as he sees them, babbling some of his not-quite-words, and throwing in ‘boo’ for good measure.

Nightmare pulls him from the horrid basket, and secures him in their arms instead.

“Boo,” they repeat, gently, as they check him over for signs of damage. His hair is a bit ruffled. But he is unhurt.

Their visceral relief is echoed by Aili, who reaches over with a shaking hand, and then looks at them. She does not need to ask her question for them to know it.

“He is not hurt,” they confirm.

The two kidnappers are still fighting with their restraints. Fear colouring the air – and their fear is beginning to unnerve Ardal. They can taste it, though. The pair have been caught, have been caught stealing a child, endangering a child, and they will be punished for it, and their paltry hopes that being servants of Ghilan’nain will avail them are…

Wait.

Nightmare looks, and narrows their eyes. And sees that yes, indeed, the pair are wearing Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin.

Their own disquiet resurges.

What does Ghilan’nain want with their babies? Has she… does she know? But why take Ardal, in that case? Unless they meant to take Oisin, but could not, because Uthvir had brought him inside. Perhaps his obvious signs of illness unnerved them. Or perhaps Ghilan’nain wishes for any of their babies, perhaps she wishes for all of them, and has failed to convince Mana’Din and so now is sending people to come and steal their children and to try and take them, too, to bring them into laboratories where they can be researched…

Ardal cries, and Nightmare’s distress grows.

Aili closes a hand on their shoulder.

“It’s alright,” she says, though she is looking at the kidnappers. “I know them. They did this for revenge – didn’t you?”

The man does not answer. Though, that could be because he cannot move his face very far from the dirt. His focus seems mostly reserved for his efforts at breathing. But the woman is still technically standing. She glares at Aili, but she is afraid. Very afraid. And tinged with grief, too.

As Thenvunin swoops down, and turns out of his swan form, she sags in defeat.

“Ardal?!” Thenvunin demands, worriedly.

Nightmare hesitates a moment. But then they relinquish their son into his arms. Those are safe arms, too, and Thenvunin is less distressing for Ardal right now, as he radiates more relief than fear.

“He is unhurt,” they repeat again, which makes Thenvunin’s relief even more potent, as he presses kisses to Ardal’s cheeks. Ardal’s crying eases some, and he clutches his papa’s collar, and shoves a thumb up into his mouth. A self-comforting gesture that reminds Nightmare further of his vulnerability, to the point where they are able to contain some of their disquiet.

“Just who-“ Thenvunin begins, covering Ardal’s ears and rounding on the strangers.

“Thenvunin,” Aili interrupts, quietly but firmly. “Please take Ardal back to the house. Uthvir should know that he is alright. Uthlin and I will handle this, and then come back.”

Thenvunin hesitates. Clearly torn between his desire to tear into the kidnappers, and his awareness that Ardal should not witness such things. The latter wins out in short order, and with one last glare, Thenvunin turns and hurries their baby back towards the relative safety of home. Relative, of course, because apparently their security measures were not up to the task.

Nightmare regards the kidnappers. Aili stares down the woman, and with Ardal no longer in range, radiates so much anger that the air wavers like an over-heated stone.

“Why should your family prosper?” the woman finally blurts. Clenching her fists, and letting a rush of her own anger fly forth. “Your kin got my son killed. My Daewyn! Dead before he was barely an adult. Lady Ghilan’nain has turned down all of our petitions for another child ever since then. Because of that fool girl’s actions, my family will never have a child again. While you people keep four of them in some secret house. What justice is that?!”

Nightmare had not known what sort of commentary to expect. But it had not been that.

They hesitate. They do not know what incident this woman is referring to, and they also do not know if it is something they have never been aware of, or have managed to forget. Either option seems possible. They recollect, now, seeing this couple while they were moving the babies to their new home. At the rest stop. They had recognized Aili, after a fashion.

Aili’s ‘kin’ in this world is likely her own alternate self, then.

For a moment, her feelings remind them much of the feeling they themselves had endured that morning. Before the alarm had gone off. Grief and regret, old wounds, long since sealed but so easily re-opened.

And then her anger smothers it all again.

“So you thought you would shove my baby in a basket and steal him?” she snaps. “What happened to Daewyn… happened. It cannot be undone. But you have no right to come to my home, to touch my son, or to terrify my family!”

Her fists clench. For a moment, Nightmare thinks she might lash out. Her knuckles are white and she is angry enough to.

But then she reaches out, and closes her hand around their own instead.

“We will send for the guard,” she decides. “Uthvir can find people.”

Nightmare pauses.

Leaving them alive seems… unwise. They might try again. They are dangerous. But, the consequences of killing them would likely be dire as well.

“You are certain?” they check.

Aili shakes her head, just a little.

“If I see them again, it will be the last time,” she asserts. Loud enough for the pair to hear. And then she redoubles her grip on them, and determinedly leads them back towards the house. To their faulted protections and insufficient safety. To where Uthvir is still holding Oisin, who is breathing properly now, and Mealla is awash with apologies – she only turned her back for a moment, to stop Einin from catching a butterfly – and Thenvunin is still holding Ardal, to such an extent that Virevas is clearly getting jealous.

They speak with Uthvir, first, and Aili explains that the couple were likely acting upon individual impulse. Not any orders from Ghilan’nain. Nightmare is still nervous, because there are so many ways this situation could open the door to further dangers. But they also listen, as Aili recounts a situation from her own long-ago youth. Less long-ago in this world than it had been in their own. Of two children getting into trouble, and only one of them getting back out of it again. Of grief-stricken parents never forgiving her for the loss of their son, and leveraging their influence as merchants against her own kin, until they had lost most of their prospects and hope of rising through the ranks.

It would seem that seeing someone even of relation to this world’s Aili, in possession of not only one child but several, had been more than the couple could handle.

Nightmare does not understand their reaction, even so. The loss of a child is a terrifying prospect. But they know that none could replace any of theirs, either. If something happened… it would not matter how many other children lived in the world. The one who was gone would still be gone.

Their bones ache, still, and they are unsettled and unnerved. Aili reclaims Ardal from Thenvunin, and Uthvir puts Oisin into their arms as they go to handle the kidnappers. Thenvunin finally gives Virevas the attention she is after, and Mealla holds Einin, and all of them settle in for several minutes as they fight to recover from the shock. Nightmare is still without armour, and they are… fraying, more than they have for quite a few years. Oisin looks like a small and vulnerable Glory, and when they glance at Thenvunin, they keep seeing his eyes glassy and his throat bloodied; and Mealla and Aili are upset, and only now beginning to really calm themselves. The babies are, subsequently, all fussing.

It is a stressful morning. Nightmare wishes to retreat, but also does not want to let anyone out of their sight. They have wards and security measures to rethink and redesign, and they feel exhausted; and they know that some of that exhaustion is carrying through their bond with Aili as well. That they are, despite themselves, feeding into one another’s negativity and upset.

And then Ardal makes a great huffing sound, and tilts his head up to where Aili keeps kissing his curls. Reaching chubby hands for her face.

“Ma-ma!” he declares, very clearly, and for the first time.

There is a moment of stunned silence.

Then a flurry of excitement, and the world feels slightly more settled again.


	18. Naked in the Moonlight

It takes Nightmare a long time to calm down, after the Kidnapping Event.

They spend a lot of nights watching over the babies, and they frequently find themselves counting heads. Making certain that they have not lost any of them, somehow, even though the new wards and alerts and systems put in place would make it impossible for them to not notice if another incident occurred. They do not sleep for nearly a month, and they know it is taxing on everyone. Ardal himself seems to bounce back from the experience within a few days of nothing worse than some clinging.

But eventually, life regains a semblance of its former pace.

Nightmare finally gives in to sleep, and wakes up to find that no calamity has befallen anything in their absence. The paranoia eases, bit by bit, and they sleep for several nights consecutively, a few days after that. Restoring themselves, and regaining themselves. Their ragged edges move back out towards the periphery of their nature. They let the babies sleep through several nights in their cribs, and stop feeling something _lurch_ in their chest every time Mealla leaves to go attend her duties.

And Aili relaxes, too. They feel some guilt over that. Working themselves up always seems to wind her up in turn, as she does her best to keep them calm and reassured. It works - she knows what she is doing very well, by now - but it is tiring. Uthvir and Thenvunin help, but Nightmare feels a pressing need to look after _her,_ in turn, once the worst of their paranoia has passed, and their mess of a mind settles down into its usual cycles of self-recrimination, doubt, and reassurance.

When they carry her off to their bedchambers a little earlier than usual, and let the others put the babies to bed, Aili does not seem surprised.

“Let me?” they ask her, even so.

She runs her fingers gently over the feathers of their wings, and hums at them, as they hold her in their arms.

“Of course,” she agrees.

She leans in and presses a kiss to the side of their mouth. They cannot help but let out a breath, and even smile. Aili, oh, _vhenan._ They inhale deeply, and let out a long sigh, before carrying her the rest of the way to the bed. And then they give in to the urge to touch her. To brush their fingers through her hair, and press more insistent kisses to her lips, and untie the knots of her clothing. She brushes their cheeks and the tips of their ears; and the first bite of the evening actually goes to her, as she nibbles on their bottom lip. Playful, but nowhere near hard enough to draw blood.

They pull away from her just a little, tweaking one of her ears in unconvincing rebuke, before they manage to undo the front laces of her shirt. Then they bend in and kiss the top of her breast, right over her heart. Letting their senses sink through her, to feel the beating rhythm of it. The _connection_ to it. Warm and familiar, now, sometimes steadier than their own thoughts, as they blink and for a moment see the network of her veins. Her blood like light, running throughout her form.

A reassuring view; though not the most scintillating. They blink, and their eyes itch for a moment as they switch back to something more comfortable. Then they set themselves to the task of pulling down her leggings, and untying her underthings. She brushes her fingers through their hair, helping here and there by shifting her hips or moving her legs, but otherwise letting them take the lead. They press a kiss to her navel, and trace over familiar scars with their fingertips. And they breathe in the scents of her. Some light sweat, and the soap she had used in the morning, and her building arousal.

It relieves a tension in the back of their chest. Makes them feel steadier. Safer. Everything is safe, their wards are humming, the night is quiet, the house is asleep, and they are touching Aili. Gently, almost teasingly, as they trail kisses down from her navel, and then settle her thighs atop their shoulders.

“If you need me to stop, pull my hair,” they say, looking up at her. A beautiful view, with her tunic still tangled around her arms, and her breasts exposed, and her face angled down towards them.

“Can do,” she promises, and wriggles her way out of the rumpled tunic.

Uthvir sets their mouth to the waiting folds of her sex, then. Eager to see how many times they can make her come. It has been too long since they indulged, since they felt _safe_ enough to cut loose, and risk them losing all sense. But they love seeing her unbound. Lost in pleasure. Her highs echo through their skin, make them feel pleasure in a way that almost chases back everything else, without costing them their own wits or leaving them too vulnerable at the same time. They like it best, really.

The taste of her on their tongue is so tied with these associations, they let out a hum of their own anticipation as they set upon her. Teasing, testing, just at first. But then with more concerted determination. They know precisely where to put their tongue, and how to move it - and they do. Working as best they can without magic. Magic will be later, they think. They want to make her come against their lips without it first. Want to feel her thighs tremble and hear her breaths break from nothing more than the press of flesh against flesh. Their wings furl outwards, their focus sharpening with intent, and Aili’s thighs tighten around them as they set about devouring her.

They feel lit. The heat at their mouth meets a warmth in their chest, affectionate and erotic at once, as her pleasure builds and carries across their bond. Always so potent, when they are this close. They sink soft-nailed fingers into her, and tease the sharper nails of their opposite hand across her hip, and find the spot inside of her that makes her _sing…_

…And one of their alarms goes off.

Nightmare reels back, reflexes jangling and crashing confusedly for the several seconds it takes them to feel the alerting spell go off, and then realize what it means. Aili is startled, equally disoriented between the rush of arousal and pleasure and then the sudden crackle of fierce unpleasantness. They recover first; ineffectually flinging a blanket over her in a moment of confused instincts, before they turn and rush through the house to where the babies are.

In a clearer frame of mind, it would not actually have been their first move. The babies are in the nursery, with Mealla, who had volunteered to keep an eye on them tonight. They are fine; still sleeping, utterly unaware of the alert which had gone off. An alert for the outer segments of the property, not the inner rooms. Nightmare sucks in a ragged breath, and lets out it again, and hears the door to their other self’s room open.

“One of the alerts went off,” they hear Uthvir say, most likely to Thenvunin. And then foosteps, heading determinedly down the hall. Somehow hard settling into the bond.

Angry.

“Aili?” their alternate self calls. “Clothes?”

“I won’t need them, this won’t take long,” Vhenan replies, as Nightmare moves to leave again. Mealla is rousing, by then, though, and she commands their attention for a moment.

“Nanae?”

“An alarm went off,” they reply. “Stay with the babies.”

Virevas turns in her cradle, and Nightmare hopes they don’t wake - don’t have to endure any fussing or fright - before they quickly check Oisin’s breathing, and leave the room. They hear Mealla sweep her blankets aside, and start to follow them.

Aili marches, entirely naked, down the main hall towards the front door. Carrying a pair of her curved knives and looking distinctly murderous.

Nightmare appreciates this, but also, nakedness is vulnerability. Uthvir seems to agree, as they hurry after her, hissing at her to head back and let them take care of this. Mealla blinks, and while she is not normally perturbed by nudity, she looks from her mother towards them, and then runs a hand down her face.

“Not thinking about it,” she murmurs firmly to herself. “Nope.”

“Aili,” they call.

“Look after the babies,” she says.

Nightmare frowns, and then catches the eye of a bewildered and sleep-addled Thenvunin. They nod towards the nursery, and gesture Mealla pointedly back into it.

“Look after the children,” they tell him, as Aili and Uthvir reach they door. Then they follow after the pair, as Aili storms onto the grounds, and one of the babies - Virevas, they think - wakes up and starts to make early-warning sounds of fussing. It keeps Thenvunin and Mealla occupied, at least, while Uthvir finally just bodily grabs Aili and thrusts her - knives and all - at Nightmare.

Aili turns her knives to avoid stabbing them, and Nightmare scoops her off of the front porch, on high-alert now for whatever set off the alarms. They close the door behind themselves, aware that the wards on the entryway have not been set off, at least.

“Put me _down,_ if it is _those people_ again then I am going to stab them this time,” Aili hisses at them.

She means it, too.

Nightmare hardly blames her. But they keep ahold of her, too. It is unlikely, after all, to be the same elves. And the night air in the village is cold, bereft of environmental charms, turning brittle with the nearness of winter. They cannot see anything telling. Just the garden wall and the path outwards, but no other alarms have been set off, and the furthest perimeter for their home is set just outside the walls anyway.

Uthvir glances at them. They share an unspoken moment of communication; Uthvir will go and check. Nightmare and Aili will cover the door.

“Let them check,” Nightmare murmurs.

Aili tenses a little.

“Alone?” she asks, radiating dislike for the concept.

“It is not far, “ Uthvir replies, silently. They move down the path, then. Aili wavers for a moment, caught by her obvious need to help their other self and sate the fire of her wrath - which is still, currently, considerable - but stymied because that would require her to struggle out of their arms. And Nightmare is holding tight enough that she would have to hurt them to do it.

Not a measure they would ordinarily take. But she is utterly without armour, and as a breeze curls around their ankles, she shivers, too.

They wrap a wing around her.

She lets out a breath, and they can see her make her choice, as the tension in her changes. She makes no move to push them off. But stares at the path intently, still tense as a bowstring, until they hear a sudden _yelp_ of pain.

“Uthvir!” Aili calls.

“Got her,” Uthvir answers, and appears at the gate again. Holding something small and furry, with the aura of an elf, in one hand. Small and furry and struggling. “Trying to climb over the wall, hm?”

“Unhand me this instant!” the furry thing demands. “Who do you think you are, snatching me up like that?! I was just _leaning_ against the walls! Is that a crime?”

“No. But trying to climb them is,” Uthvir replies.

Aili nudges them, and Nightmare releases her. Uthvir has the intruder - provided there was only one. But only one alarm was triggered, so, that seems likely. If another tries to get inside, another alarm will trigger. And their other self will not let any animalistic elves break their grasp and savage Aili. On this point, Nightmare is confident enough that some of their tension eases again.

More succinctly than ordinarily, too.

Perhaps they are getting better at this. Or perhaps they are just better at it this time. It can be hard to say.

“A raccoon?” Aili asks. She levels a knife at the elf, and they immediately stop struggling. A whiff of fear escapes them, sharper than the low-grade alarm that had seized them before. Nightmare catches it. Surprise-tinged sudden realization that the situation is more dangerous than anticipated.

“What were you after, breaking into our home?” Vhenan continues, narrowing her eyes. In the moonlight she looks dangerous, and lovely, and as sharp as Nightmare ever imagines themselves to have been in a full suit of armour. “Another would-be kidnapper?”

The raccoon gulps.

“ _Kidnapper?”_ she says. “Who would…? N-no! I just wanted to _see_ them, I swear! Look, I am sorry, it was a bad idea. I can admit that. I thought I could maybe get close to a window, and just… I mean, I’ve never seen a baby before, and you have _four,_ I thought my odds would be pretty good!”

Vhenan is not convinced. Good. Neither are they. Uthvir gives the raccoon a slight shake.

“If seeing them was all you were after, you could have just waited until we took them on an outing,” they say.

“I have been!” the raccoon insists. “I have been waiting since I got here, but it has been _days_ and I have to move on.”

Their other self puts something together, then.

“You are with the survey group, the one collecting census information,” they say.

The raccooon’s discomfort increases. Identified, then, or nearly.

“Um,” she says. Her eyes dart to Aili’s knife, and then she turns her head and looks towards Uthvir. Mana’Din’s spymaster, of course. Nightmare is beginning to think this elf really _is_ young and foolish, from the way shock keeps colouring all their fears. But that does not mean they are going to let their guard down.

After a moment, Aili lowers her knife, though. She lets out a breath, and looks at Uthvir.

“You know who she works for?”

They nod.

“Official surveyors report to district managers. The territory census is conducted from Daran, though. I know _everyone_ she answers to. More directly, I know who the head surveyor staying in the village is right now. I suppose we shall go and see what she has to say on your conduct, hm?”

They give the raccoon another shake, but she is less afraid now that no knives are being aimed at her.

“Maybe we could just… chalk this up to youthful curiosity…?” the raccoon suggests.

Uthvir snorts.

Aili sighs.

Nightmare remains suspicious, as their vhenan makes her way back towards them.

“I suppose I have to put on some clothes,” she mutters.

They let out a long breath through their nose, and finally take a moment for themselves to lament the interruption to the evening’s proceedings. Uthvir moves the raccoon - who is still trying to talk them into letting her go - back outside the household wards. Faintly, through the door, they can hear the distinctive sounds of Virevas kicking up a fuss. Thenvunin or Mealla probably carried her into the hall in hope of keeping her from waking the others.

The evening, it seems, will not be set back on track.

But despite the disruption… Nightmare does not feel as if they have been ground back down to Step One again.

They reach out, and brush a hand down Aili’s arm.

“I will make it up to you,” they promise. Sending their assurances - and their own steadiness - through the bond.

She blinks. And then she reaches over, and grasps their face; and reels them in for a quick kiss.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Really, though… you are very naked,” they remind her.

She snorts.


	19. The Cobbler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is ready for a BIG OL' TIME JUMP?! 
> 
> From here on out we're entering Tonlen x Oisin territory. >:3

Mana’din needs a cobbler, apparently. And not just any cobbler, but a high-end shoe maker who caters to the upper class.

Tonlen is informed of his trade early in the day. A runner fetches him from his workshop and brings him to a bunch of managers who are looking over files. There’s another person there, they wear Mana’din’s markings and look particularly unhappy about the situation. Like they have any right to be more put out about this than Tonlen. This is a slap in the face of his work. Is he not skilled or creative enough to remain under Sylaise? Must he be subjugated to the pervasive disorganized “style” in Mana’din’s ranks? Truly, this is an insult beyond reasonable bearing, but Tonlen is gracious, so bear it he will.

“And what is it you do?” He asks the soon to be former servant of Mana’din.

“I’m…I’m an aqueduct engineer.” Oh, well, that explains things more than simply Mana’din desiring a cobbler of Tonlen’s exceptional caliber. The aqueducts have been needing some tuning up in the more rural parts of Sylaise’s territories. He sighs. Well, it beats being sacrificed and Mana’din has a good reputation for being good to her followers, even if she is not as…stylish.

Perhaps she can be convinced to allow him to remain in Arlathan. He’s been to Daran before, it’s not quite his cup of tea. But he can grow to love it if that is where he is placed. He’s not a fool, merely disgruntled at lackluster taste.

The trade takes a few weeks to be completed, mostly due to Sylaise and Mana’din having conflicting schedules for this time of year. They both need to present for the ritual vallaslin change, so Tonlen and the engineer wait. It gives Tonlen time to inform his clients that he is being moved. To his delight, many of his clients seem very saddened by the thought of losing his trade. Some even nod and say they will still seek him out. It is all very flattering. He also begins to reach out to some of the other higher end shoe makers in Mana’din’s territories – staggeringly few compared to Sylaise that is for sure. It is likely he will be heading to Daran after all. That is where most of the higher-ups are, so most of his potential clientele, not to mention Mana’din herself.

After the transfer is complete, his family helps move him into his new quarters. He is given a small apartment that his mother is none too happy about. It’s not good enough for him, and he agrees. But…his skills aren’t as appreciated here, so…his apartment isn’t as nice as his old one. He gets a balcony, though, and the view isn’t so bad. The closet is slightly too small to house all of his robes, however, and he refuses to part with any of them. That sacrifice is too much to bear. So, he has a rack of splendid clothes in a corner of his living space. There is no actual change in rank, so he will be keeping all his clothes, all his accessories, _everything_. They can pry it from his cold dead hands at this point.

His memae and him spend several days getting the apartment to better a standard. Papa helps of course, he has a great eye for these sorts of things as well, and he knows how to install things. Ileth helps by cooking and baking and making sure everyone is fed. His new station as a baker is serving him well, much better than how he was as a manager.

Memae sighs and looks at the finished apartment, worry clear on her face, “It is not as nice as what you had. But Mana’din is…a very kind and merciful woman to work under.” The unspoken _unlike Falon’din_ hangs in the air. She was here for that, she saw his tyrannical rule.

“I will make the best of it, I always do,” he asserts, “and perhaps my superior tastes will invigorate the nearby peoples to adopt more fashionable styles.” He can hope.

His family leaves in the afternoon, hoping to make it back to Arlathan before it is _too_ late. Ileth has an apprentice to make sure kept the bakery up and running and Papa has a large commission to work on. Memae can’t leave her duties for overlong, Tasallir will be put out and they can’t have that. Besides, he’s an adult, this is his life now, it’s best if he just…learns how to deal with it. Tacky as Daran may be, it is considerably safer than Arlathan and any other of Sylaise’s cities.

The next day is spent with Tonlen getting his work shop set up. Being a shoe maker means he makes not just hard-soled shoes, but enchanted footwraps, and occasionally foot jewelry that is suitable for walking and dancing in. He started out in a lower end sector, catering mostly to workers who needed sturdy shoes for their work like gardening, sewer tending, construction – things like that. He’s plied his knowledge of stability and sturdiness to his higher end trends. The results have been amazing – the elite can dance for _days_ in his shoes and not feel a thing. He’s proud of the reputation he has cultivated for himself. Now he must build it up once more.

The next few months, he works does whatever a shifted artisan does. He holds sales, advertises, flaunts his work on himself, and even pays a few people to talk about his store to bring in more commissioners. He’d feel bad about the bribing if he wasn’t being honest about the quality he creates.

But to Tonlen’s dismay, the first higher up clientele he receives are military officials. They ask if his resilient dancing shoes can be translated to their marching gear. Well, of course it _can_ and he can, but…military boots? Is this what his work will be now? Oh, how he longs for the ridiculous couture of Sylaise’s people!

He takes the commissions, though, and works sturdy, comfortable enchantments into them. He matches them to the patron’s gear, slipping in a slightly more colorful interior of the boot than explicitly necessary. Well, he has to do _something_. They walk away happy, though, and soon more military clientele show up – so he’s done a good job at least. And it pays. But what he wouldn’t give for something completely ridiculous to make.

It requires him working later, but Tonlen decides to make some new boots for himself. It will take a long time to construct them, with all the patterns in the leather, and the silver threading, the beaded lace trim, and the heels of course. But it will be worth it. No one else here in this depressingly drab land would dare to wear something so…fashionable.

He needs something to occupy the creative side of his brain. Marching boots are fine for generating revenue, but they are dull, and there are only so many pattern differences he can use, particularly if he wants to continue to use the exceptionally effective enchantments for comfort and durability. Tonlen needs diversity in his creation if he’s going to continue to enjoy his work. Maybe he should bribe some more people to say he’s a _couture_ designer, not just an elite military shoe maker. 

But even as he laments the monotony of the work, more military personnel pour into his workshop. He fills the orders even as he tells them that his true specialty is more delicate fanciful shoes.

He is working on his personal project, early in the morning, when the door to the shop opens and yet strides in another military person. They look unlike the other military persons he’s served, covered in red spiked plate, their eyes keener and more…aware. Strangely enough, they make him think of the more pointedly different people in Arlathan, the ones who despised the trends and ended up creating their own style. He quite liked them in a way – they always gave him interesting challenges. So Tonlen smiles his most charming smile and rises happily from his chair.

Only to have the new client plop a pair of worn, _well-worn_ , boots onto the counter.

“These need to be repaired and re-enchanted.”

Something in Tonlen deflates as he inspects the boots. They’ve been repaired and re-enchanted _multiple_ times. The soles are worn to a disastrous point, the leather is weak, and whatever style they used to possess is long gone.

He shakes his head, “I am sorry but I think these boots have earned their rest. However, I am quite capable of making you a new pair, if you would like.” He hands the boots back and they nod, apparently unsurprised.

“I suspected as such…” they glance around the shop then consider Tonlen, “you do not specialize in military boots.”

He shakes his head, “No. In Arlathan I was known mostly for my couture, I made…beautiful, exquisite shoes for dancing and wooing and outlandish outfits. Strappy sandals, thigh highs, boots, even leg wraps, and shoes that are more like leg jewelry than shoe – but all enchanted to give the wearer the _feeling_ and _security_ of shoes. I am happy to create more…military styled boots for marching, though. They simply do not strike the artistic chord in me.”

“Hm. Then I think I will take these to my usual cobbler.”

“Oh, I apologize if I came across poorly, I’m happy to make any shoe you wish. My flights of fancy do not impede my work.” But they take their boots off the counter anyways and say their goodbyes as they leave the shop.

Dammit.

Maybe he should just accept that this is his work now. He is…a military boot person. His days of crafting amazing works of art are over.

The rest of the day passes in a disappointing melancholy. He works on commissions and a few stock pieces people can buy out from the store without commission. A few more people come into the shop, some even purchase more fanciful shoes, but they are more standard fun glitzy shoes.

But the next day, around noon, just before Tonlen is about to take his midday break for lunch, two men enter his shop. They are tall and blonde, and look related in how they carry themselves, straight back, squared shoulders, but they are also surrounded by airs of civility and friendliness. Though the air around the blue-eyed one is tangibly younger and more open. And it is Blue Eyes that pulls Tonlen’s gaze. His features are rounder, softer, his face covered in an endearing smattering of freckles. His skin shines in the light, particularly next to the golden piece he and the other are admiring.

“Welcome! I am Tonlen and this is my lovely little shoe shop. Please, have a look around, if there is anything I can help you with, let me know.” He smiles and sends up a prayer to whatever is out there that they’re here to commission, or they could be persuaded to commission him. They look closer to the types who would commission him back in Arlathan, so _maybe_ there’s hope.

Green Eyes turns to him and puts on a polite smile himself, “Actually yes. My spouse came by yesterday and they said you do more fashionable shoe commissions?” Tonlen blinks, not believing his luck before snapping out of it.

“Yes, yes, I do! I’m originally from Arlathan, I’ve only been here a few months. I am very skilled in creating couture shoes, sandals – really whatever it is you heart desires.” He is woefully out of practice and desperate, but it doesn’t seem to put the clients off, thankfully.

“The seasonal apple harvest celebration is in two months and we’re hoping to see if you can create some suitable footwear,” Green Eyes explains. Oh yes, he’s heard of that, it’s an open celebration to most in the city. There are of course caterers and servers who are paid to tend to the celebration, but most of the city is expected to attend in some fashion. The orchards are there for everyone to enjoy apparently, not just Mana’din and her attendants. Strange but…a welcome sort of strange. It gives Tonlen an excuse to wear the new boots he’s making for himself at least.

“Oh of course! Do we know where the celebration will take place? Is it in the fields or somewhere with more substantial flooring?” He ducks down and grabs his sketch book for commissions and pops up. He’s already composing color ideas and requirements in the shoe.

“There is a feast hall, so more substantial flooring.”

“Excellent. And are there specific types of shoe you would like? An outfit that you seek to match?” What a joy to be working on actual beautiful commissions once more! The green-eyed man is more experienced in this, Tonlen can tell, while Blue-Eyes tends to look over the shop, quieter, but there is something…quite entrancing about him.

It’s not uncommon to have muses in Arlathan, many in the Pleasure District have been muses for many artists and artisans. One of Tonlen’s previous romantic relationships grew out of a muse-artisan relationship. It had been a beautiful thing, one full of mutual respect and beauty. But time goes on, people grow apart.

“May I have your names, please. To keep the sketches clear, of course, organization is imperative,” he says.

“I am Thenerassan, pleased to meet you, Tonlen,” Green-Eyes, _Thenerassan_ , says.

Blue-Eyes smiles and it is magnificent, so suited for muse work, really, “Oisin, nice to meet you.”

Tonlen smiles back, “Beautiful,” he says, the flirt easy on his lips before he sees Thenerassan’s eyes narrow and his lips thing, “is what the shoes you order will be. Now, do you have any outfits to match?”

He falls easily into the old commission work, looking at the designs they brought him of their clothes they’ll be wearing. They’re…fashionable but not forward like he is used to. Still, he is glad to be given the chance to work on something other than clunky military boots. Granted, they are the best and most beautiful military boots out there, he’s a damn visionary when it comes to military boots, but they’re still military boots.

“The slit is up to the bottom of your hip where the leg begins…have you considered to the top of the hip? It’s trending in Arlathan and there are ways to achieve more modesty with stockings. It shortens the torso while elongating the legs, I say that because it looks spectacular with thigh high lattice work metal sandals. The bottom-hip high slit looks better with just over the knee sandals. The idea is keeping a good skin to shoe ratio,” he explains, “here, I can grab a couple of sample shoes to display the difference.” He moves to the side of the store and pulls down a few mannequins, one with mid-thigh height boots and one with over the knee sandals.

“I see, so mine will take the over-the knee sandal. Oisin, what would you prefer?”

“I like the boot, but I don’t want the slit any higher,” he says. There is a slight hesitance in his voice that Tonlen recognizes as some inexperience of commissioning, or rather in clients who attempt to be polite by not being overly assertive in what they want. But what he wants is what he gets, that is Tonlen’s goal as a craftsman and a businessman.

“Completely doable, there are many designs that I can do to make the best boot for you.” He returns to his sketchpad and begins to work on Oisin’s design. Thenerassan’s is strangely straightforward, it’s a sandal style with winding metal that has feathered etching, up over the knee, embellished with a few garnets up the back where the shoe opens for him to put in his foot and leg.

Oisin’s boot, though, is going to be slightly more complex. It’s a sturdy cloth base with leather accents. The season is too warm for a completely leather boot without heavy cooling enchantments, but there’s no need if Tonlen can use more breathable fabric. There is a very minor heel, just under an inch in height, so it will not really make Oisin taller, but rather offer support. Thenerassan’s sandal even has a support heel.

Since the celebration is in the autumn, there is a trend towards warmer colors. Oisin plans to wear a burnt orange robe with umber and gold accents. This makes Tonlen favor a rich brown leather and a slightly darker fabric for the boot. If he went lighter, it would draw a strange contrast to the robes, and this way, Tonlen can potentially work in a gold accent somewhere in the design.

Once they have confirmed on the concept designs, Tonlen walks Thenerassan and Oisin over to the seats and breaks out the molding socks. The fabric was invented recently by a sex toy maker, of all things. It was to make taking casts of certain appendages easier and allow for more privacy. It has since translated well to jewelers and shoe makers. It’s simple, he stretches the sock up to where he wants the shoes to go, and then the fabric remembers the form for Tonlen to work from later.

Thenerassan seems to be _familiar_ with the fabric, however, and he sets to protest, “That fabric –

“Has many uses! It works well on remembering feet and leg measurements, so you won’t have to come back in multiple times for confirmation of measurements. I’ve worked with it for years now and I love it, clients love it too,” he reassures Thenerassan as he eases the stocking up his legs. Once properly placed, Tonlen activates the magic in the stocking. It glows briefly before dulling, cuing Tonlen it’s safe to remove.

He places Thenerassan’s stockings into a box that he quickly labels with his name, then moves onto Oisin. He slides the stocking up Oisin’s leg, adjusting it so that it is not too tight but also not too loose. The fabric can be persnickety with modeling, it requires particular touching which for some is uncomfortable. Even so, it is still less invasive than the multitude of measurements he’d have to take if he was doing this traditionally.

Tonlen adjusts the stocking to where Oisin wants the boot to end and he, in what could possibly be described as too forward or ill-advised, looks up. Oisin is watching him and Tonlen smiles. It’s not a business smile, not a “my pleasure to serve you!” smile, but a flirty smile. It’s quick and Tonlen comes to his senses so he looks away, rolling the stocking down when it’s ready then puts it into a box.

“Alright, next I need to observe how you walk. I create beauty, but this type of beauty should also serve a functional purpose of support. A dance can be completely thrown off if the shoes do not fit correctly or do not support properly.”

Thenerassan demonstrates for Tonlen first. His gait is elegant, but strong, indicating his fighting training. He moves with his robes beautifully, and he is balanced on his feet evenly. He has a low arch, and when he turns, he loads most of his weight onto his heel – a warrior’s move. Oisin however, frontloads his weight like a dancer might, but it’s untrained, to uneven to suggest Oisin is a dancer. His arches are higher so the bulk of the stress his feet bear are on the balls of his feet rather than his heel. Tonlen makes a note to bump the support heel to a full inch instead of the quarter of an inch before.

Tonlen takes all the notes down and circles areas on the shoe designs that are going to need some altering for comfort’s sake. He is very aware that beauty can be pain, but if he can manage something just as beautiful _without_ pain – does that not make it more beautiful?

He jots the notes down onto the sketches. When the demonstrations are done, he grabs swatches of materials from the back to show them what the shoes will be made from. Once they seem pleased with the selection, it’s finalized.

“Now the least fun part – I require a fifty percent deposit for the work, then the remaining fifty percent upon reception of the commission. Thank you for choosing my business, I know there are many others you could have chosen, I’m honored to make these beautiful shoes for you.” Being gracious is important, otherwise, he risks offense to the customer. Papa was always clear on how to interact with the customers – make them feel good, happy, flatter them, don’t focus on numbers, but emotions, they are giving you money, yes, but presenting a servile nature is to your benefit. Customers like feeling in control, no matter their station.

They get the money sorted out, as well as a time frame for when Tonlen will complete the shoes. It should take three weeks. He has two other commissions, but both will be completed soon, then Tonlen can dedicate as much time as he needs to these commissions. If they had requested special enchantments, it would take longer, but they opted for basic comfort enchantments that Tonlen can accomplish in an afternoon.

Thenerassan and Oisin turn to leave the shop. Tonlen can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. And just before he leaves, Oisin turns and smiles back at Tonlen.

“I look forward to seeing how everything turns out,” he says.

“That makes two of us,” Tonlen replies. Oisin nods then follows Thenerassan out the door.

The next few weeks, Tonlen spends working on solely on commissions. Some of his prepared stock dwindles, but not enough to drag him from his beloved work. He travels to Arlathan once to consult his father on Thenerassan’s commission. It involves a lot of metalwork similar to jewelry, and he could use the help. While at his father’s, he creates gold buttons that will run up the back of Oisin’s boot. They’re etched with little flowers, each one unique. It’s a detail that won’t necessarily noticed by most, but it’s the details like these that make the shoes feel luxe.

And it’s good to visit his parents. They feed him and Memae fusses over him. Arlathan looks different, the colors surrounding the fashionable areas are different – less turquoise and more gold and amber for the season. There are trees of rich brown with leaves of gold lining the streets, the leaves that fall suddenly being suspended in an aura around them.

He visits the market and finds a gold silk scarf that remind him of Oisin’s hair. It is completely inappropriate for him to send a gift _now_ , but…after the commission is completed, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Tonlen isn’t one to dilly on a decision such as this – Oisin is beautiful, radiant even. He isn’t even exactly proposing _courtship_ , he would settle for friends or a muse relationship. Oisin would make an excellent muse. What he is unsure of is that this is entirely too early and out of place.

But the scarf is beautiful, and even if he decides to not send it to Oisin, he can wear it himself. So Tonlen purchases the scarf and doesn’t spend more time thinking about it than necessary. He can over-analyze later, right now, he has a commission to finish.

When Tonlen returns to Daran, there are fewer decorations, but he sees that the people smile more freely. The restrictions regarding status are more lax and the air isn’t quite so tense. It’s a beauty he hasn’t appreciated, didn’t know how to appreciate. Arlathan is a work of art, beauty is pain.

_But if the same beauty can be achieved with less pain – does that not make it more beautiful?_

The thoughts don’t sit well with him, and thankfully he has his work to distract him.

The shoes are finished in the next week, just meeting the end of the three-week deadline. Thenerassan and Oisin return when Tonlen sends word that he has completed the commission.

“Please sit, I will be happy to put them on you,” Tonlen says. He works on Thenerassan’s first. He shows him how to open the back of the long sandal with the right use of magic. The flexible metal opens up and he is able to slide his leg in.

“How is the fit?” Tonlen asks as the sandal closes around Thenerassan’s leg.

“Good, it doesn’t pinch,” he sounds slightly surprised at that. He rises from his seat and takes a few steps, turns on his heel, and flexes his feet.

“They are very comfortable, and I don’t see any place where you’ve sacrificed aesthetic.”

“You are very kind – that is always my goal. Form, function, and comfort. Please remain standing, I am going to inspect the fit to make sure that everything is in order.” He shifts to where Thenerassan is standing and looks at the places where fit tends to get difficult – by the toes and the heel. But everything seems to be right, the toes aren’t pinched and the metal lays flush against Thenerassan’s heel, but not digging in.

“Everything looks good, I do recommend breaking them in before any dancing, however. To reduce the likelihood of blisters, and to help with any pain from the blisters, you can use a basic crème you can get from any apothecary. I’ll write the name down for you. Alright, Oisin, time to fit your boots. These were an absolute delight to make. And as you can see, I added some gold buttons on the back, just for some sparkle. And if you look closely, I etched in floral designs into each one. Just an extra touch.”

“That was not part of the agreed bill,” Thenerassan says. Tonlen purses his lips.

“It will not raise the cost, I did this for the art. If you wish, you may consider it a gift.” He regrets the word as soon as it leaves his mouth. Oisin’s eyes widen, and Thenerassan is suddenly _very_ close in Tonlen’s peripheral.

“As in a _complimentary_ gift. I saw it would compliment the shoe, so I put it there. I can absorb the cost with ease thanks to other commissions. I mean no imposition,” he explains quickly. Thenerassan becomes no less looming and Oisin looks…flushed, but not dismissive.

“Of course not, I appreciate the thought, they really do add to the boot,” he says, holding his stockinged leg out for Tonlen to affix the boot. He takes the cue and puts the boots on, noting the lack of tightness or unpleasantness that can sometimes come with the first fit. But no, the boot is snug and will allow for some breaking in, but it should not be uncomfortable.

Oisin stands and steps in place, testing the fit. He is a natural in wearing boots, they compliment his form in such a sublime manner that it makes Tonlen’s hands itch to make more. The elf is made for fashion, and yet he is here in Daran and not Arlathan. Curious. His look is one that is prized in Arlathan, he could reach high station just on looks. But, the winds of fashion tend to change and those who reach heights with prettiness need more than just their looks to hold onto that station. Still, Oisin is beautiful, and only if Tonlen were without eyes could he not see such beauty.

He keeps his doe-eyed sighing internal, however, no need to make the father-hen more ruffled than he already is.

“Are they comfortable?” Tonlen asks.

“Very! And I imagine they will only become more comfortable after wearing them in. You are quite skilled.” Oisin’s smile is soft and Tonlen can guess as to _why_ he is not in Arlathan. Softness means weakness, there are plenty of sharp people willing to take advantage of those who are given to kinder and softer things in life. Tonlen never understood the need to hurt or step on other people to get what you want – he achieved so many things he wanted, and he never had to hurt anyone. But, he did end up in Daran.

“You are too kind. If you will permit me, I’d like to make sure everything is right with you standing?” He asks and Oisin nods, going still and adjusting his robes properly for Tonlen to inspect the boots. A wonderful fit, just as he had hoped for and promised.

Tonlen stands back up and waits for them to take their shoes off and don the shoes they had entered with.

“I am honored to have made such lovely pieces for such lovely people. I hope you dance to happiness and comfort all night long,” he says, collecting the rest of the money. Thenerassan’s smile is tight, polite – a familiar forced type of smile.

“Your work is very good, even if –

“Your work is lovely, we’ll be sure to tell our friends,” Oisin finishes his father’s statement in a much different direction. Tonlen blinks back a blush and nods his gratitude.

“Thank you, my lords, you are exceptionally kind,” and forgiving.

He sees them out and clicks the door shut. He doubts he’ll get any more through traffic today, but he leaves the store open and returns to the back to continue working on his personal boots. They’re a gorgeous deep shade of purple that almost borders on black, and the heel is high enough to probably make him at least Oisin’s height.

Tonlen is not even an hour into his work when the wards at the front door ring. Apparently he was wrong on getting more traffic for the day. When he returns to the main shop, he finds Oisin there, standing slightly awkwardly, holding the bag with the box of boots. For a split moment, Tonlen worries that he does not like the boots after all.

“Welcome back, is there something I can help you with?” Tonlen asks, consciously keeping his worry from spilling out.

It takes Oisin a moment before he responds, “Were you lying when you said the buttons were just a complimentary gift or…” he trails off, but Tonlen gets his meaning. His smile turns into a grin.

“My dear Oisin, I assure you, if I were to give you a courting gift, you would know.”

Oisin blushes and glances at the floor but to his credit, he quickly looks up, eyes shining, “Oh good. I would hate to not notice.”

“Would you like me to send you courting gifts?” Tonlen asks, feeling exceptionally bold. Oisin blinks and blushes a bit more deeply.

“You don’t even know me,” Oisin says quickly.

“And what a shame that is.” Tonlen walks out from around the corner and strides slowly to Oisin, giving him time to move if he so chose.

Oisin swallows but does not move, “My father thinks you are terribly indecent and crass.”

“Well it’s a good thing that I’m not interested in your father,” Tonlen quips.

Oisin makes to respond but Tonlen raises a finger, “But I understand. I was terribly forward, and I should not have been. Your beauty took me off-guard. It is partially why I included some more…upgraded things in the shoes, to make up for that.”

“I do not mind,” Oisin says softly.

“But I do. Professionalism is very important in this business. So, I will ask – will you permit me to, after a reasonable amount of time has passed, to send you what can be considered a courting gift?”

Oisin’s blush remains but he looks more sure when nods, “Yes, I will _permit_ it. I’ll even look forward to it.”

“Good. I look forward to sending it…and hearing of what I’m sure will be a happy response.”

“You’re very confident of that,” Oisin replies, quicker.

“Because I’m an excellent gift giver, and you are lovely and polite. The two make bliss.” He is aware he sounds cocky, but this is fun, and he hasn’t had this kind of fun in…well, he hasn’t had a partner since Lithadra and that was almost ten years ago. Perhaps he’s rusty, or maybe he’s just making up for lost time.

“You may have point. I’m afraid I am out of time of slipping away from my father. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“It has been a pleasure. Wear the shoes well!” Tonlen walks him to the door before Oisin turns back around, positioned so that he’s half out the door but leaning back in towards Tonlen.

“Are you going to the celebration? Perhaps I will see you there?”

“It is likely you will see me there.” It’s Tonlen’s turn to blush slightly at Oisin’s forwardness. But Oisin just smiles in response, his entire face lighting up so sweetly.

“Wonderful, I look forward to it.” He leaves the store to head back to Thenerassan but Tonlen’s smile and slight blush remains. What a delightful surprise. He can’t believe he’s not done this in so long, he’d practically forgotten how much fun it is!

He returns to the back, feeling light and better than he has in weeks. Perhaps the best since he’s moved to Daran. He’ll have some reason to send the scarf, after all. And poetry. Lots and lots of poetry. 


	20. A Habit of Worrying

Oisin is so thrilled he wants to _dance._

Tonlen likes him!

Papae might think he is thoroughly inappropriate, but Oisin disagrees. Tonlen is a charming man. And sophisticated! He is a _city_ type, he has lived his life out there in the rest of the empire. He probably even thinks that Daran is _simple,_ the way that he has sometimes heard Papae’s associates discuss it.

Of course, Oisin is well aware that Arlathan is a dangerous place. But he is also well aware that not everyone who comes from it is bad - his parents all lived there at some point, after all. And his parents _fuss_ about him so. They treat him like he has not had markings on his face for more than a century already, and even compared to his other siblings, Oisin is usually subjected to the most worry.

It is because he was the one who got sick a lot as a baby, he knows. They made a habit of worrying about him, and they never really seemed to get over it. After he successfully sneaks away from Papae, at the market, he comes back to find his father already looking for him in concern. Proving the point, more or less.

Oisin does not even get a word out before his father’s arms are around him.

“There you are!” he exclaims, with visible relief.

It makes him feel guilty.

His father lets go of him just long enough to pull back, and look him over.

“Are you alright? I thought you said you were just going to the baker’s, I went there and you were nowhere to be seen!”

“Papae, I am _fine,”_ he insists. “I just got distracted looking at other things, and lost track of time. We can go to the bakery together, if you like. I _did_ promise Mamae I would bring her back something…”

Oisin adopts his very best look of guilelessness.

His father, unfortunately, does not seem convinced. He looks back down the road that Oisin approached by, and his lips thin.

“Did you go back to that _cobbler?”_ he asks.

Oh dear.

Oisin amps up the innocence of his expression.

“Why would I go back there? We have our shoes,” he asks. It is not quite _lying,_ seeing as how he does not exactly deny it. He threads his arm through his father’s, and feels a little bit bad at banking on his general inability to see Oisin as deceitful or scheming. But after a moment his father relents, and lets him tug him back towards the bakery. No longer accusing, but still vaguely tense and disapproving.

“That man’s treatment of you was wholly inappropriate,” he nevertheless insists. “The sheer presumption of it. Do _not_ take it as flattery, Oisin. You are very beautiful, of course, but anyone worthy of you would be respectful and not nearly so forward.”

“I do not think he meant any disrespect at all,” Oisin counters, lifting his chin. “And Nenae told me that when they met _you-”_

Immediately, Papae shushes him, and looks slightly mortified.

“They should _not_ have told you about that,” he insists.

“ _I_ think it is romantic,” Oisin insists. “I think it is nice that you and Nanae liked each other so much. I want something like that, Papae. I want to have a relationship where someone can hardly help themselves around me. Who wouldn’t?”

“You are _much too young_ for that sort of thing,” Papae insists, with enough genuine worry that Oisin falters.

“Papae-”

“No, listen,” he requests. Glancing down the street, he then tugs him over to a more secluded segment of the walkways. Near some climbing vines, with sweet-smelling flowers, and away from a few errant spirits that had drifted close. Oisin is preparing a defense of himself - his age, his maturity, his right to decide things on his own - but he has not quite mustered it before his father speaks again.

Papae takes his hands and squeezes them gently between his own.

“When I was your age, I was just the same,” he says. “I met a man and he was very forward, and I was very flattered. And this… this shoemaker, he may or may not be like that man I met. You can hardly know, sweetheart, you have met him only encountered him a few times. But I would not like to see you hurt the way that I was, not ever.”

Oisin sighs.

“I am not going to get _hurt_ , Papae,” he assures him. “And even if I do get my heartbroken or something, isn’t that just part of growing up? I think I could do much worse than to turn out like you.”

His father smiles, but it is a tight expression. And it does not seems as if his nerves have been eased any. He squeezes Oisin’s hands again.

“I am glad you want to be like me, Oisin. I am. But I would rather you not hit quite so many bumps in the road,” he says. “So just… please, do me this favour, and do not approach Tonlen on your own? And do not accept any gifts from him, not until you are older, at least.”

“Papae…”

Oisin looks at his father’s expression, and sighs.

Just how is he supposed to properly rebel when his parents can look so _worried?_

“I will not see him alone,” he promises, reluctantly.

“And if he sends you a gift?” his father presses.

Oisin frowns.

“…We shall see,” he allows. When it looks as though his father is going to object, he squeezes his hands right back. “Papae. I am not going to make any promises on that.” He has already made one to Tonlen, after all. “I like him. And a gift is only a gift, after all. A proper courtship can take a long time.”

“I am less worried about a ‘proper’ courtship than an _improper_ one, which is just what a presumptuous elf might impose,” his father insists.

Oisin frowns, and lets go of his hands so he can fold his arms.

“I think you are misjudging him,” he insists.

“Sweetheart-”

“No, I think you are. You are being very unfair.” After all, hadn’t Tonlen _just_ insisted himself that he wanted to do things properly? Not that his father had been there for that. But then that was the thing, wasn’t it? His father really did not know. He was just assuming the worst, the way that Nanae and Nenae tended to, most of the time. “All he did was make us beautiful shoes and pay us very nice compliments. I know you worry, but really, Papae. The world is not chock full of evil people just waiting to pounce.”

His father looks pained. Oisin almost immediately regrets being sharp with him, but he cannot bring himself to budge, either. He is not _wrong._ He isn’t! Tonlen might turn out to be meaner than Oisin expects, but he also might not be. His father does not know him any better than Oisin himself does, and he is judging so much about him from just a few encounters, too. But Oisin thinks his eyes are kind, and his hands are gentle, and his smile might have mischief and flirtation but those are _not_ bad things.

He has seen his parents exchange such sentiments often enough. He _wants_ something like that.

But eventually, his father relents.

“Alright,” he says. “We can talk about it more later. Let’s just go home.”

Oisin links their arms again, and this seems to mollify him a little. They end up forgetting to go to the bakery, in the end. But it is probably for the best. By the time they get out of Daran and back to the village, the sky is nearly full dark, and Nanae Uthlin is sitting by the front gate. Working on Nenae’s new boots, with their dusty wings out, and one eye turned towards the road. Their posture eases a little as Oisin and Thenvunin get within a certain range. Then they put their work aside to stand up and offer Oisin a hug.

“How was the city?” they ask.

“Wonderful!” Oisin exclaims. Now that the arguing is done, he is starting to feel excited about it all again. Tonlen has very pretty eyes, and his shoes are _magnificent,_ and he is going to look so fine for the harvest celebrations! Like a fancy city elf. Nanae glances at Papae, who clears his throat, but then just nods.

“We got our errands done,” he says. “Well, most of them.”

That is his ‘we Adults have to discuss something’ tone. Oisin shoots him a pleading look - oh, he _can’t_ mean to tell Nanae! Or Nenae or Mamae, even, they were all _terrible_ about Mealla’s last courtship, and all of them still treat Pride like he has half interloper, and Lavellan has been courting him since before Oisin was born! But his father does not relent, even if his expression does wobble some at Oisin’s best beseeching look.

Nanae raises an eyebrow. But rather than asking, they just reach over and take Oisin’s bags from him.

“Uthvir is still in Arlathan,” they say.

Oisin resists the urge to sigh. Nenae _still_ refuses to take him with them when they go to Arlathan. They do not take Ardal or Einin either, but even so. Neither Ardal nor Einin wants to go as badly as Oisin does. Or so it seems. He tries silently communicating with his father all the way up the front walk, but Papae just steadfastly avoids making eye-contact. And then Mamae is coming to greet them, and Oisin figures he will have to change tactics. Of all his parents, Mamae is the least likely to be unreasonable about Tonlen.

“I want to show you my shoes,” he tells her.

She blinks a little. Probably because she is not exactly the parent who is most appreciative of fashion shows. But Oisin will want to show off his new things to everyone, anyway, and so after a moment she just relents, fond and indulgent as she lets him lead her off.

 _Before_ Papae can talk to her.

Oisin takes her to his room, and starts modelling his new footwear, as she sits upon the little soft at the foot of his bed.

“We forgot to get you anything,” he admits, apologetically. “But maybe we can go back tomorrow? You and I could? Together? Just the two of us?”

“Oh! Well, maybe?” Mamae agrees. “I have some work to do, but if Uthvir gets back in time then we can probably squeeze in a trip for the afternoon. You don’t have to worry, though, I’m just glad you had a good time.”

“I did!” he agrees, happily. “I really like this shoe-maker, in fact! Papae thinks he is uncouth and inappropriate, but that’s just because he likes me. But I like him, too, so I hardly see the trouble. His name is Tonlen, and he is very nice and he has very pretty eyes and a _wonderf_ _ul_ smile, and I think he is very sophisticated, Mamae, his shop looks so _fancy…”_

Before he knows it, then, Oisin finds himself gushing about Tonlen. His mother listens, looking slightly surprised, and then amused…

…And then concerned.

But when he falters, she just smiles at him.

“He sounds very nice,” she says. “And the boots look beautiful! Are they comfy?”

“Very!” he confirms.

“Well that’s good, dancing in boots is a lot harder when they hurt,” she says, definitively. “If you like this Tonlen so much, you might want to dance with him under the orchard trees.”

Oisin offers her a relieved smile. She beams back at him, and when he comes and hugs her, presses a kiss to his forehead.

“I would like to dance with him,” he admits. “Papae said I shouldn’t, though. He’s worried.”

“So am I,” his mother admits.

He leans back a little, and feels the smile slip from his face.

“But why?” he wonders. “…You think I am still too young? Other people my age court! It happens all the time!”

“It does!” his mother agrees. “And their parents worryall the time, too. The same as they do when their children start practicing with weapons or taking on dangerous jobs or going to unknown places without them. Courting someone makes you _vulnerable._ And parents hate it because we can’t really help you with it. We can’t be there for the most dangerous parts and make sure nothing goes wrong.”

Mamae sighs. Oisin echoes her.

“But then… you have to trust me?” he suggests. Because that does seem to be the obvious solution.

Mamae pats him.

“Exactly,” she agrees. “And we do. But we’re also going to worry the whole while. I’ll talk to the others, though, and remind them that you’re over a century old and know how to castrate a rapist if you have to.”

“I do!” Oisin confirms, eagerly. Not that he has ever had to stab anyone even once in his life, but he knows how! And he even thinks he could do it if he had to. Maybe he wouldn’t actually _geld_ them but he could certainly stick them with a hat pin and then go and find any number of people to finish the job off for him.

As if reading his thoughts, his mother snorts in amusement. Then she takes his face between her hands, and bumps their noses together in a bunny kiss.

“Don’t worry about us worrying,” she advises. “Your boots look beautiful, and I’m glad you like the man who made them.”

“I knew you would understand,” Oisin declares, happily.

She shakes her head at him.

He does not care if he is being silly, though. It is a nice way to feel - so he thinks he will take her advice, and just feel it, and not worry about what others are worried about.

For now, anyway.


	21. Harvest Festival

“I’m feeling…yellow, like a canary, but soft,” Tonlen says to the seamstress before him. It’s a rush order, which is never fun, but he’s only recently decided to actually attend this celebration – so he needs this in short order.

The seamstress, Allure, nods, sketching quickly, making notes.

“Do you have any other specific ideas?”

“Flowers, I’d like it to incorporate flowers somehow. And I want the slit to be to the top of my hip…or even to my waist, I feel like showing off.”

She blinks, “Which is it – over your hip or to your waist?”

He contemplates it for a moment before sighing, “Over the hip, I shouldn’t _scandalize_ the poor thing.”

She chuckles, returning to her sketch, “Seeking to woo someone?”

“Yes,” Tonlen says, leaning back in the chair. He considers it for a moment before deciding.

“Do you know of an Oisin?” He asks. Allure stops her work and glances up at Tonlen, her face suddenly serious.

“As in, General Thenerassan’s and Spymaster Uthvir’s kid? Plus _two other_ parents that no one really knows much about but rumor has it they’re in very good with Mana’din herself? _That_ Oisin?”

Tonlen blanches. Then swallows. Oh. That is…more than a little intimidating.

“His…his father is Thenerassan but perhaps that’s a common name –

She shakes her head slowly, “You are going to need an exorbitant amount of luck, my friend. And class. And willpower. And a good helping of fear and stubbornness.” Allure smiles though, and Tonlen can see the cogs turning in her head.

“A word of caution, Tonlen,” she says slowly, her expression turning sharp, “Daran is not like Arlathan. We look out for our own.”

Tonlen raises an eyebrow at her, “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning, and a _slight_ one considering Oisin’s family. But enough unpleasantness, tell me more about this gown you would like.”

It takes a while for Tonlen to not feel odd or threatened, but the talk of fashion and color helps break him out of it. They settle on an off the shoulder design that will display the currently gold flower tattoos on Tonlen’s shoulder. The sleeves billow out at the bicep and float over a fitted portion of the sleeve around his forearms. There are to be flower appliques along the collar and torso, fading to no appliques by his waist. At his waist there is to be a sash of the same gauzy bright yellow, before the gown gains more fabric in flowing pleats. There is no train, to allow for more dancing, but the slits run up the sides of his legs and up over his hip. He’ll have to wear some modesty stockings, but that’s nothing new to him.

There’s no time to have it enchanted, and the design is remarkably simple due to the restricted time. Still, he’ll make it work. He has some silver and gold twined ear cuffs his father made for his two hundredth birthday that he hasn’t worn in a while. But they’ll work beautifully for this occasion.

The next stop on Tonlen’s list is the hairdresser. There is a product he can smooth into his hair to give it an iridescent sheen. It’s more expensive than he was planning, but now that he knows more about what he’s dealing with by pseudo-initiating a courtship with Oisin…the expense is worth it. How he makes that call after only three encounters, two of which were filled with business, he can’t really say. Papae would say it’s his heart _knowing_ something. Memae would say it’s irrational and it would be wise to turn back now.

Sometimes Tonlen wonders how his parents managed to get together. But then he thinks of other things because _ew_.

Next he has his appointment with a hand specialist. Working with leather is not kind on the hands and normally he isn’t too bothered by his rougher hands, but right now, he wants to feel pretty and perfect. Which means he needs a full restorative manicure.

He drops his things off, then heads to the manicurist. They take one look at his hands and click their tongue.

“Leather work?”

“Yes, I am apparently the go to person for military boots now,” Tonlen says.

“I’ll fix these right up, don’t you worry. Any scents you prefer?” They ask as they pull out their needed tools.

“Lavender honey, please.” Tried and true and very pleasant. For the next couple of hours, the manicurist works their magic and smooths Tonlen’s hands. They freshen the skin by removing old, which is painful, but they’re quick to reduce the pain and regenerate new skin. Cuticles are pushed and prodded and nails are buffed then painted. They even go up to Tonlen’s elbows and smooth the skin there. It’s equal parts healing and pampering.

Tonlen leaves the manicurist with beautiful hands and arms. He’ll see them again before the celebration, to truly make his hands soft and nice. This visit was the first step and now he feels mostly raw.

When he returns home, he decides to spend the rest of the day reading. He’ll be up to working tomorrow, when his hands are less raw, and he is in a better mindset to actually work.

He tries to read, he does, but his mind keeps wandering to what Allure said. Tonlen hasn’t engaged that much with Daran outside of his work. He goes about his work, shops sometimes but outside of that he hasn’t ventured out, hasn’t made friends. He had friends in Arlathan, he’d take lunch breaks, go eat with them – they’d view art together, he even had a book club.

He hasn’t integrated well in Daran, and maybe that’s part of why he had such a lack of control around Oisin. Maybe it’s why he wants to court Oisin so vehemently. He’s… _lonely_. It’s a word he never thought he’d use to describe himself, but here he is, lonely in a city with only a dance with a beautiful person to look forward to.

A beautiful person who happens to be the child of a _general_ and the _spymaster._ Tonlen’s always had good taste.

His head falls back against his chair, and he stares up at his ceiling. Oisin is integrated into this city, into this society. Tonlen is just…what is he? He works for Mana’din but he isn’t really of Daran. People who meet him say he has Arlathan written all over him and yet he’s here. He’s here and he’s lonely and apparently going to court a beautiful person who is the child of two of the most powerful people in Mana’din’s territories.

He wishes for a moment that Samihlan wasn’t so far away, he could travel, see his brother. Ileth is rational and comforting about this stuff. He already knows what it’s like to move to a new city and flounder. Except that on the surface it looks like Tonlen is flourishing. His business is doing well, he is making good money, his reputation is spectacular. A gorgeous, truly breath-taking person is interested in him and for the first time since Lithadra, he wants to be with someone.

Ugh, he sounds so _morose_. He’s really quite the cheerful person normally. Maybe he shouldn’t pursue Oisin, maybe it’s just to distract from his own lonely existence in this city where he doesn’t feel like he belongs.

No. That’s absurd, he likes Oisin. Oisin is…beautiful and has this smile that makes Tonlen feel like he’s swallowed butterflies. And if he is wrong and they don’t work, then…he doesn’t have to hurt Oisin if that comes true.

Tonlen sets the book down and opens the box with the golden scarf. He imagines Oisin wearing it, loving it, being beautiful in it. He should be proactive. It’s only been a few days since Oisin stopped by, which really isn’t that appropriate amount of time Tonlen had mentioned. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be proactive.

Initial courting gifts should be small offerings. The scarf is a good start, but he wants to explain why he is sending this particular gift. Prose is clunky, so he sets to compose poetry.

_I walked the streets of Arlathan,_

_Lined with gold and umber_

_And all I could think of_

_Was you._

_I thought of your eyes,_

_The color pure and bright,_

_And your hair a finer gold_

_Than any on this street._

_The scarf, gold and flowing_

_Like your hair but not._

_I hope it brightens your day,_

_Like the thought of your smile_

_Brightens mine._

He forgot about this part. Initial courtship is so…butterfly inducing. It’s worrying over what the other person is going to think upon receiving it.

He files the poem away with the box. An appropriate amount of time would be _after_ the celebration, all things considered. The idea doesn’t sit well with him, however, since Oisin seemed to enjoy the thought of receiving a gift relatively soon. The celebration is in three weeks. Tonlen can send the package in two weeks, which should give the package time to arrive, and it means that it will be fresh in Oisin’s mind at the celebration.

Over the next two weeks, Tonlen makes strides to not be so isolated. He finds a new book club out of the local library. It’s for mysteries, specifically the fun kind, the ones with spunky protagonists and erstwhile companions. There’s six of them, including Tonlen. One’s a low-level manager, another is a gardener, there’s a healer who specializes in bones and the regeneration of limbs, and one is a cartographer. The healer and the cartographer avoid talking about their work, but the gardener speaks plenty about her work. Tonlen is happy to gush about shoes too, and they all enjoy talking about the books of course.

He thinks by the time he sends the scarf and the poem (he spritzes the paper with the perfume he was wearing the second time Oisin had come by), that he’s made friends with the book club members. The cartographer, Trust (who is looking to change their name), has become particularly close. They like to cook and have shown up at Tonlen’s shop with a fully cooked dish a few times, worried that he’s not eating enough. Composure, the gardener, has invited Tonlen to the public gardens. He feels _better_ , less alone, and he was right. He still wants to pursue Oisin, only now he feels assured that it’s not because he’s alone and grabbing onto the first the person to receive him well. His friends are just that, friends, all beautiful, but he feels no urge to woo them.

He sends the scarf and the poem in a small painted box. On the same day, he has his last fitting for the gown and he brings his recently completed boots. He steps up onto the pedestal for fitting and Allure lets out a low whistle.

“Those boots are _amazing_. Remind me to commission you,” she says, staring at his beautiful creations. They are high and snug against his thighs, leaving only a tantalizing amount of skin revealed between the high slit of the gown and the top of the boot. He is tall and elegant and striking. The deep purple contrasts beautifully with the yellow of the dress. There are minor fitting issues they resolve, but overall, Tonlen is exceptionally pleased with the effect.

He leaves the store feeling beautiful and excited for the celebration.

Decorations efforts have been under way for most of the month, transforming plain Daran into…less plain. The point of the celebration is the harvest of the apples, which vary between shades of red, pink, and golden yellow. There are ribbons above doors and great swaths of fabric strung over the streets. A metalworking co-op was commissioned to make cage-like decorations for the streetlamps. They resemble vines with little apple blossoms.

Stores all debut with sales and after seeing how widespread that trend is, Tonlen decides to have a sale of his own. For the few days before the great event, business booms. It booms so much that it almost depletes Tonlen of premade stock. He begins offering discounted commissions instead and that goes over very well. Suddenly he has fifteen commissions to do in addition to replenishing his stock. If business keeps up like this, he’ll need to take on an apprentice soon.

The sales keep him busy until the day of the celebration. Then everything is closed for the day as everyone crowds the streets to see the parade. It is a small, quaint procession compared to the absolute spectacles in Arlathan. But there is something nice knowing that the dancers and the ribbon twirlers, the fire eaters, everyone involved in the parade is Mana’din’s. It feels more personal in a way, and Tonlen can appreciate that.

He watches the procession from his apartment, leaning out the window to watch everything. He’s not overly fond of crowds and the parade walks right by his shop, so he has this grand benefit. After the parade, he follows the crowd out to the orchards outside of the city walls. There are booths and a large temporary hall constructed beside the trees. It’s all very fun and beautiful, even in its simplicity. Everything in Arlathan had been over the top and elegant and dangerous. This just feels happy.

The day is full of apple related activities. There is apple bobbing in multiple forms. There is the traditional form of hanging them from trees and people leap up and try to snag the hanging apples with their teeth, and the water version where the apples are in buckets and people must snatch them by essentially dunking their heads into the water.

There are cheers and carefree happiness at it all. It’s quite the treat to see.

“So this is your first harvest celebration,” Allure says. Tonlen turns from his spot by an apple carving station to see his seamstress dressed in a radiant pink two piece. He smiles and when she moves to hug him he allows her and even hugs her back.

“That obvious?”

“Fish out of water tend to flail, but you’re just standing and staring,” she replies, pulling back from him. She gestures to the table, “You’d be good at that, with your skills.”

Tonlen glances at the station and notes how one man maneuvers his knife with such precision, Tonlen is convinced he’s a carver of some sort.

“Perhaps, I’m interested in seeing what the rest of the celebration has to offer.” Allure links her arm with his and gestures outward.

“Allow me to be your guide! Here we have apple carving. You’ve already seen the apple bobbing because you had walk by those fools to get here. The dance platform will be completed in an hour, then a band will strike up. There is the apple cider area, complete with alcoholic and non-alcoholic varieties. There will be drunken singing by there later…” she runs through what seems to be a dozen activities, strolling him by them all (he makes a mental note to avoid the barrel rolling, he can just hear his mother’s voice “You did _what?!_ Young man, that is _dangerous!_ You could have _died!_ Don’t you scare your poor mother like that! Come here and let me hold you for what will feel like _hours!_ ”).

Allure explains the significance of the orchards, how they’re planted for peace and everyone loves them so. The orchardists are well regarded in Daran and after eating an apple turnover, Tonlen can appreciate them too. It’s not just a celebration of the apples, but ongoing peace and goodness.

By the time they wander back over to the dancing pavilion, the band is playing, the dance floor is alight, and people are already beginning to sway with the music. His heart flutters in his chest and he hopes he catches sight of Oisin. But catching sight of Oisin may also mean he catches sight of Thenerassan, and he’s not sure how to handle _that_ quite yet. Oisin said that Thenerassan thought Tonlen to be too forward and crass, which is understandable. But should Tonlen apologize for it? Explain that it’s been…over thirty years since he’s been involved in an early courtship, and even longer since he’s been the one to initiate the courtship. Or is that too much information?

It’s both nerve wracking and exciting. He hopes…he hopes he can have a dance with Oisin. Even one would be nice, but he’s unsure if it will be permitted considering….

“You need to stop that, be confident,” Allure reprimands. Tonlen rolls his eyes.

“Because it’s so easy to stop being nervous.”

“It is. You just remind yourself that you’re worth it and you move on to the good stuff.”

Tonlen arches his brow at her and shakes his head, nearly laughing in awe of her, “You really don’t understand this part, do you? Courtship is supposed to be nerve wracking, it’s tentative and new, and beautiful because it’s this new fluttering feeling in your stomach that you want to both stop and to never end because it happens only when you’re with that person.”

Her nose wrinkles, “That sounds horrible. No thank you, I have my list when I need to get my kinks out, that is plenty for me.”

Tonlen means to reply to her but he catches sight of a certain orange colored gown and straw-colored hair. He turns and there Oisin is, tall and radiant – just like at the shop. There is something different, though…the air surrounding… _them_. Oh. It’s a surprise, but what’s more concerning than that is the veritable _horde_ around them. Tonlen recognizes Thenerassan, but there is also the almost client as well.

“This is where I take my leave, go get’em!” Allure whispers before slipping back into the crowd behind them.

He thinks of what Allure said about reminding himself he’s worth it. Because he is. Wow that is a lot people around Oisin. But before he can worry too much, a group splits off from the crowd, leaving Oisin with just their father and a couple of others.

Tonlen squares his shoulders and wiggles his toes, reminding himself that he looks damn good. He looks tall and beautiful and he is desirable. He smooths his hair back so that it is all tucked, slicked almost, behind his ears, cascading down his back in a shimmering display.

He walks over the dance floor, keeping his posture straight as he makes his way over to Oisin. He stops a fair distance away off from them, though, waiting until they see him. He isn’t staring but turned at an angle that allows him to appreciate the band playing while watching Oisin not so covertly inspect the crowd. Their eyes land on Tonlen and he pauses for a long moment, allowing them time to experience their own butterflies. He likes that thought. He makes them nervous just as they make him.

They look as if they mean to step forward, but something stops them and they turn to look…at Thenerassan. Ah.

Tonlen swallows and gathers himself. Oisin’s father is probably telling them to not approach him, which he can understand. Still, it makes Tonlen hesitate. But, no, Oisin is worth it and Tonlen is definitely worth it. He turns and smiles when he sees Oisin directly. They are spectacular in their burnt orange dress, it has a high collar and long voluminous sleeves but there are shimmering decorative seams that accentuate their chest and waist.

He turns and acts as if he’s just spied Oisin. He catches their eye and he smiles before striding to them.

A blush tints Oisin’s cheeks as Tonlen inclines his head in greeting, “What a treat to see you here, Oisin. You look radiant.”

They swallow, and several figures suddenly crowd around them, but before any of them speak, they manage to reply.

“Thank you, you look beautiful yourself.”

“You are as kind as you are lovely,” he says before turning to Thenerassan who is wearing a very critical look. The air around him is pointedly disapproving and he uses the slight height he still has on Tonlen to loom. Tonlen accepts it and enters a slight bow, with his foot behind him and everything.

“It is a pleasure to see you as well, Lord Thenerassan. I hope my work is suiting you?” He speaks while in his servile stance. Thenerassan is…very much above Tonlen’s station and Oisin’s father, insulting him is a disastrous idea.

“They are as you promised.” Tonlen rises slowly from his bow.

“I am pleased to hear that,” he says.

“So kind of you to ask, but now I must ask you to leave, we were having a family disc –

“ _Papae_ ,” Oisin says, interrupting their father. Tonlen swallows. If Thenerassan truly wants him to leave…

“I understand, I do not wish to overstay my welcome. I am glad to see the shoes are treating you well.” He makes to back away when a small woman nudges Thenerassan.

“There is no need, we were just finished. It’s nice to meet you, Tonlen, I am Aili, Oisin’s mamae,” she says, smiling politely.

“Oh!” Tonlen says, smiling sweetly at her. What a darling woman, and he can suddenly see some of the family resemblance there, in the way Oisin smiles, it’s just like his mamae’s. “Pleased to meet you! It’s a delight to meet more of Oisin’s family.”

Another small person maneuvers next to Oisin, grinning broadly.

“Well, that’s great because there’s a lot of us,” she says, “I’m Mealla, Oisin’s big sister. And we were all just…going over there, _weren’t we, Papae?_ ” She says pointedly. Tonlen could hug her as she herds a still scowling Thenerassan away. Aili smiles and waves as she follows them, leaving Oisin with Tonlen.

“I must be honest, I am a little surprised that just happened,” he says.

“Yes, I…they’re not far, they’re probably listening to everything we’re saying,” they say, but they also take a slight step forward, their blush intensifying.

“I received your gift,” they start.

“Oh, oh good. Did you like it?” He asks softly, suddenly concerned that there is a chance they don’t.

“I loved it!” They say, blessedly interrupting his thoughts, “The scarf is beautiful and the poem was…I read it five times.”

“That warms my heart,” he replies, “does that mean you will permit me to send more gifts?”

Oisin nods readily, “Yes, I would like that very much.”

“Wonderful.” Tonlen extends a hand out to Oisin, smiling sweetly, “Would you care to dance?” Happiness colors the air around Oisin as they take Tonlen’s hand.

“I’d love to,” they say making Tonlen’s heart flutter like it’s preparing to take flight. He doesn’t think he can ever stop smiling as he guides Oisin to the dancefloor.

“I have a confession,” they say softly, still holding Tonlen’s hand. They have lovely hands, soft and larger than Tonlen’s own.

“Oh? Do tell,” Tonlen says, feeling flirty and happy as he leans close to Oisin. He moves to take their other hand for the current dance. They swallow and shake slightly as they raise their hand with his.

“I am not a good dancer.”

Their voice is tinged with embarrassment and nervousness. They look away, blushing fiercely and it just softens Tonlen’s expression.

“I’ll show you. This dance is simple, here.” Tonlen moves to show Oisin the starting position and the band eases into the dance. Oisin quickly follows Tonlen’s instruction and while it takes some finessing at first, Oisin is a quick learner. It’s a repetitive dance with only a few steps, and after the second repetition, Oisin gets the hang of it and moves more confidently along with Tonlen.

“There, you are doing beautifully,” Tonlen compliments. It’s not a dance that involves a lot of contact, but it’s pretty and allows for a lot of face to face time which is not something that other dances allow. He watches Oisin through a step and sighs.

“I want to know you.” It leaves his lips before he can even process it in his brain. And then it’s too late to take it back.

Oisin stutters and blushes and stumbles on a step, “What-what do you want to know? I’m not very interesting.”

“I find that hard to believe. And everything. I am greedy for knowledge, and in return, you can ask me anything as well, I love talking about myself,” he plays and a small laugh escapes Oisin.

“I gathered that!”

“I’m very mysterious, I know.” They turn, moving their hands in a fun move that makes Oisin laugh.

“You are to me,” they say when they come back into the face to face position.

“Then I’ll offer something. I think you can tell a great deal about a person from their family, or lack thereof. My mother is an attendant for Sylaise. I worked for Sylaise before Mana’din, in fact. My father is a jeweler, and my older brother is a baker.” All vey respectable professions. Oisin’s face lights up as Tonlen speaks and nods along.

“I agree, family says a lot, and I have _a lot_ of family.” Their eyes dart away for a second before their expression turns sheepish. The next step has them closer and Tonlen tilts his head to the side.

“That can be good, but I know from my own family that it can be a bit annoying too.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Oisin deadpans. The song ends and Oisin takes Tonlen’s hand, turning him to look at a group of elves who had been near Oisin before.

“There’s Papae and Mamae and Mealla, who’ve you met. But there is also, my Nenae, Uthvir. Einin, my slightly older sister, and Ardal, my slightly older brother. And there is Virevas, my baby sister. Lavellan isn’t here, she’s on assignment, but she’s my eldest sister. And Nanae, Uthlin, is home right now, they’re not a fan of crowds.”

Tonlen blinks.

That.

That is a lot of people.

_Six_ children. Four parents. Ten people. He…can scarcely picture Memae having a third child, let alone… _this_.

“That is….”

“A lot, I know.” They worry their lip and shrug, “but it’s also nice. I can’t imagine not having my siblings, I feel like it would be so…lonely.”

“It’s more like you have more privacy.”

“What’s that?” They ask and they both laugh. The crowd moves around them, but Tonlen doesn’t feel like moving from their spot yet, the band will play another dance soon anyways, they are simply taking a break.

“You said that…Einin and Ardal are only _slightly_ older than you are?”

They nod, “Yeaah, we’re triplets. Ardal likes to call us former ‘womb-mates.’”

“That’s terrible. The pun, not the – _triplets_? That is amazing. I am willing to bet you three are the only triplets in all of Mana’din’s territories…even Arlathan!” He can’t get over it. But Oisin nods and looks…not uncomfortable but it is an expression that he recognizes as someone who is tired of talking about something. He probably gets the awe about his triplet status a lot, and it is probably exhausting.

Tonlen takes their hand and squeezes it gently.

“Your family is very interesting, but I would love to hear more about you, specifically.”

They smile and blush a bit, “Alright, but isn’t it your turn?”

“Forgive me, I am simply too eager to know you it seems. Let’s see. When I was little, I wanted to be a warrior. I didn’t fall in love with shoe making until I was older.” The band plays a quick ‘there is another dance coming soon’ noise that draws Oisin’s attention.

“Another dance is starting soon.”

“It is, we could go somewhere else and continue to talk if you would like,” Tonlen offers, careful to not presume that they would –

“Or we could dance some more,” Oisin offers. Tonlen grins and nods.

“I’d like that very much.”

The band cues up the song and Tonlen guides Oisin through the dance. They speak between instruction and laughing at the occasion bump or misstep. Oisin is not a strong dancer, but Tonlen cannot wish for any other partner right now. He finds himself utterly charmed by Oisin’s laugh and careful grip on him as they try to find their footing. They lean into him and follow his flirtations with endearing blushing and averted glances.

It is only when they say they’re an _apprentice_ does Tonlen put it all together. They are _young_. Much younger than he is, at least. He wonders if he is their first real foray into this courtship world. And if it is…what a pressure. He wants to get this right for them, then. He doesn’t want them to go through anything less than wonderful. Tonlen’s own first courtship was…decent. He had largely been talked down to because he was young, and she was older, so she of course knew better than he did. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either. Later attempts at courting had gone much more smoothly because he knew what to _not_ tolerate.

Oisin shouldn’t go through that. They are much too kind and lovely for it.

He learns also that they are a painter and he has an overwhelming desire to see them paint. To see works that they have already painted. He asks what they like to paint, and it ranges from people to flowers to animals. They love animals. They’re all darling to them and they are so excited that it infects Tonlen too. He talks about he’s been thinking about acquiring an animal companion to help combat the loneliness of moving to a new city.

Oisin is thrilled by the idea. Their father keeps birds apparently, and they talk about all the birds they have come to care for, which is all of them. They are adorable as they go on about their little bird friends.

He doesn’t realize the dance is over until Oisin is standing still and hesitantly retracting their hands from his. He doesn’t want to let them go but it is appropriate, so he lets them. But he doesn’t stop smiling and he doesn’t step away from them.

“You are the most delightful person I have met in this city,” he chuckles. He is about to ask them to another dance when a familiar elf appears. Oisin turns and steps away from Tonlen, fully withdrawing.

“Nenae, we were just –

“Dancing, I saw. Are you having a good time?” This is their _nenae_ so this is Uthvir. Uthvir pointedly directs their question to Oisin, who nods and smiles small.

“I was, am! Tonlen is an excellent dancer, he makes me look like I know what I’m doing.” They glance at Tonlen and he smiles, making his posture small and more servile.

“It’s an honor to dance with them,” he says, directly to Uthvir, but he slides his gaze to Oisin at the end. Their freckles become more difficult to see when they blush, the red disguises the little spots of brown over their nose and their cheeks. He can’t figure out which is cuter – the blush or the freckles.

“Your siblings want to go apple bobbing, specifically your brother. They’re forming teams and your sisters are ganging up on him,” Uthvir says. They’re maneuvering Oisin away, most likely to interrogate him themselves.

Oisin looks to Tonlen, mouth moving to say something before sighing, “I had a lovely time, I-I have to go.”

Tonlen smiles and nods, “Go, have fun, back your brother up. I had a wonderful time, as well.” Oisin pauses, then leaves, disappearing off the dance floor, a beautiful flash of orange through the crowd.

Uthvir, however, does not leave.

“You are courting my child,” Uthvir says.

“They are a wonderful person worth courting, I am simply honored that they may return the sentiment,” Tonlen replies. They turn to him and look at him the way his memae would look at his suitors. She’d dig up dirt on them all, see them, truly see them and evaluate them like she could see every fiber of who they are with that gaze. Uthvir has that kind of gaze. But sharper.

“I am not a bad person. I know no one will admit to being bad, but I really am not. I make shoes, I love animals too, I take no pleasure in harming others. I’m a good person. And I like Oisin, a lot, they’re special and I want to make them feel just how special they are.” He can’t believe he just said all that but at the same time he couldn’t not say it. He doesn’t want to stop courting Oisin because of their parents. He doesn’t want there to be this misconception that he is anything other than sincere and good. He will stop if Oisin wants him too but that should be Oisin’s choice or Tonlen’s choice.

Uthvir stands still and continues to level that gaze at him.

“That has yet to be seen. I want to believe you, do not give me reason to not,” is all they say before they turn and leave.

Well. That was ominous and vaguely threatening. But it wasn’t exactly condemnation, either. He watches them go with a lump in his throat. It is probably not a good idea to seek Oisin out again tonight. They had their dances and their talk. Talk that Tonlen did not want to end but there will be other times. There are more gifts to give and poetry to write.

Tonlen smiles and sets out to find Allure. She’ll distract him and keep him from making a fool out of himself for the rest of the night. Hopefully.


	22. Siblings

The morning after the Harvest Festival, Oisin does not quite feel like getting out of bed. The world is still and just beginning to brighten, and the only sounds to be heard are a few of Papae’s songbirds who are just now waking up enough to start twittering to each other out in the back garden. Everything seems soft and hazy, with a few cool evening shadows still clinging to the corners of their room. As if the Dreaming is spilling in through their windows.

They wonder if, perhaps, the time they had spent with Tonlen the day before had been a dream as well. If some stray spirit had seen the shape of their desires and chosen to paint the scene for them as they lay sleeping. It had all been so lovely.

It would be such a disappointment to find that it was only an illusion.

They sit up slowly, hair and nightgown fairly rumpled, and reach over into the drawer of their nightstand. Oisin has not quite had the courage to wear the scarf that Tonlen sent them yet, but they like to take it out and look at it a lot. To hold it in their hands. The fabric is smooth and slithery between their fingers, not beyond their station, but finer than a lot of clothing readily available in Daran.

They lift it to their face and brush it against their cheek briefly, letting out a sigh of deep contentment.

Their first courtship gift.

From their very first courtship.

There had been other things before. Fumblings. Awkward flirting and hasty liaisons that had never gone much farther than some sloppy kisses. Mostly because a lot of potential suitors had seemed reasonably intimidated by the size and prominence of their family, but also probably because Oisin is a little…odd.

They had been worried that Tonlen would notice the shift in their aura, and withdraw his interest, but he had not mentioned it while they were dancing. It seems impossible to think such a thing could have been overlooked. Perhaps he assumes that the change would be permanent, or that Oisin’s shifts only ever happen infrequently.

They do tend to unnerve people sometimes, and they do not want Tonlen to think of them the way that those people do. That they are fickle and inconstant. That because part of their identity changes, the rest of them must change with it.

It is their first courtship, and they want it to be special. They want to believe Tonlen is special. That what he feels for them might be special, too.

Oisin tenses slightly at a suspicious rattling from one of the vents that channels warm and cool air throughout their room. A system of small tunnels that also serve as a huge ward of protection that incircles the whole house, when activated by Nenae’s magic. It is also a passageway for small nosy siblings to wiggle through.

Sure enough, Mealla pops the grate off and tumbles out on top of his wardrobe in the far corner of the room. A tiny fox with huge ears, completely covered in dust.

“Good morning, little sibling,” she chirps happily, hopping down onto the floor and leaving a trail of dirt in her wake, “Did you have pleasant dreams?”

“Mea, why can’t you use the door like everyone else?” Oisin sighs, not managing to convey much disapproval. They never can, really.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she laughs, shifting into her normal form and coming to sit beside them on the bed. “Besides, if I used the door, then everyone else would know that I came to bother you about your new paramour. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No!” Oisin baulks, feeling their face darken. “I mean, he’s not… We’re not… Nothing happened! At least…not yet.”

“Aw, but it sounds like you want it to!” Mealla snickers, leaning closer with a wide knowing grin, “Is that scarf from him? A token of affection? Was that what came in the box Nenae almost threw away, or did you take it off of him yourself while you were dancing?”

“Mea!” Oisin objects, properly mortified, “I’m not going to undress someone when I know my whole family is watching!”

“So, that means you want to undress him!” she crows triumphantly.

“Who is Oisin undressing?” Ardal asks muzzily from the doorway. He looks more than half asleep, his shirt nearly falling off one of his shoulders, and his hair an absolute bird’s nest. He is flanked by their two younger sisters, neither of which look pleased to be awake at this hour.

“I’m not undressing anyone!” Oisin insists.

“The cobbler from Daran!” Mealla pronounces, almost simultaneously.

“A cobbler?” Virevas sniffs, making a face, “You’ve got a crush on some rough-hand who bangs bits of leather into boots?”

“ _Beautiful_ boots!” Oisin insists, already flustered. They are not very good at arguing, but Tonlen is not here to defend himself, and someone ought to. “He’s from Arlathan. He’s very fashionable, and his shop is so fancy. It's…it’s like a garden. Full of bright vivid colors. It’s lovely, you’ll see!”

“Oh, will I?” Vir wonders, snickering.

“If he makes shoes, that means he’s probably got some weird obsession with feet,” Ardal says sagely, “He probably wants to court you because of the shape of your toes or something.”

“That is _not_ a thing,” Virevas snorts.

“It is so!” Ardal counters, hackles rising, “I heard it!”

“Right,” Vir replies, rolling her eyes, “From where?”

“People who know!” Ardal growls stubbornly, folding his arms.

“As if any of your grubby little friends know anything about what makes people attracted to one another,” she scoffs.

“More than you,” he snaps back, “You’ve never even _had_ a romance!”

“Neither have you!” She retorts just as quickly.

“Why does it matter?” Einin wonders, injecting calmly before the other two can break into a full-out brawl, “Who cares if he likes your toes? If you like him, and you don’t mind him pursuing a courtship, then the reasons for his initial interest don’t matter all that much in the end.”

Oisin heaves a sigh of immense relief.

“Is he actually courting you?” Ardal gasps, eyes going wide, “Has he sent you gifts?”

Oisin fidgets with their scarf, but Mealla heads them off before they can muster any sort of reply.

“He sent them a scarf!” she exclaims, pointing at the object in question, “Nenae almost threw it away, but Mamae stopped them. They still ran about two hundred tests on it to make sure it wasn’t poisoned or anything, though.”

“Mea!” Oisin objects again. They don’t mind their family knowing about Tonlen, really, but they don’t need to know _everything_. 

“You should have seen the look on Nenae’s face when they read the letter that came with it,” Mealla laughs.

“Nenae read that?” Oisin groans in abject despair. They’re lucky that they got to dance with Tonlen at all, in that case.

“Was it a poem?” Ardal presses.

“Was it any good?” Virevas chimes in a moment later.

“It was perfectly sweet, and completely private,” Oisin says firmly.

“That means it was bad,” Vir surmises.

“The scarf seems a little simple,” Einin notes with a slight tilt of her head, “For someone from Arlathan anyway. Did he think you wouldn’t want something with more colors, or was he limited by his rank?”

“I _like_ that it’s simple!” Oisin exclaims passionately, tears welling in their eyes, “And it’s only the first thing he’s given me, it doesn’t have to be extravagant!”

“I think it’s nice,” Ardal reassures them, reaching over to squeeze their fingers in a gesture of fondness, “Don’t let the fashion snobs ruin it for you.”

“I never said simple was bad,” Einin points out, “Perhaps he did not want to overwhelm you with something too fancy straight out of the gate.”

“That’s right,” Mealla chimes in, “Courtship gifts can be all sorts of things. They don’t have to be encrusted with jewels. They just need to be something that the other person likes. Or something that gets their attention.”

“Their attention?” Oisin wonders hesitantly, most of the courtship presents they’ve read about in books were things like earrings and fine clothes. Sheets of poetry and bouquets of rare flowers. Mantles sewn from starlight and bright boxes enchanted to play music. But his big sister’s idea of attention-grabbing doesn’t quite adhere to that vein of gifts.

Mealla nods, a nearly wicked grin spreading on her face.

“Nanae sent Mamae _spiders_.”

The other children let out a collective gasp.

“They did _not_!”

“As a _courtship_ gift?”

“Mamae _hates_ spiders!”

“It’s true,” Mealla tells them smugly, folding her arms and looking extremely pleased with herself, “Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

Oisin feels as though they might faint. They love all living things, but… Spiders. They do not think they would like to get a gift of spiders. Some of them are poisonous, and their mother intensely dislikes them, and they do not imagine that opening a box full of spiders, alive or dead, would be especially…pleasant.

“Are you going to send him a gift back?” Einin asks them a moment later, jolting them from their thoughts.

“I…don’t know,” they admit, sliding the scarf between their hands again. Considering. “Papae and Nenae and Nanae all think that I should keep my distance. They want me to take things slowly and be cautious. And Mamae is worried, too. But… I don’t want to discourage him. He’s handsome and charming, and I want… I want him to like me.”

“What’s not to like?” Mealla grins, reaching over and pinching their cheek a little, “Do what feels best for you, little sibling. Our parents are going to fuss and worry regardless.”

“But I don’t want to upset anyone,” Oisin sighs dejectedly, “The look on Papae’s face when I said I liked Tonlen was awful. And Nenae and Nanae were tense for _days_. I…I don’t want to be the reason they’re sad.”

Mealla ruffles their hair affectionately before standing up and stretching a bit.

“I never saw much point in drawn out courtships, myself,” she shrugs, “All the good stuff comes afterwards. But it’s up to you to decide.”

“That’s right,” Ardal chimes in, “And if you do want to send a gift, we can help you think of ideas!”

“As if anyone would come to you for advice on anything that requires a sense of taste,” Virevas sniffs.

“I can taste just fine!” Ardal huffs.

“All right you two, lets take this out to the back garden before you break any of Oisin’s furniture again,” Mealla sighs, “We still have time to get some sparring in before breakfast.”

“Sparring with him is _boring_ ,” Vir says imperiously, “I always win.”

“You always cheat!"Ardal insists hotly.

"Being taller than you is not cheating,” Virevas counters.

“Why don’t you both see if you can beat me?” Mealla suggests, as she ushers them out the door, “Two to one.”

Virevas and Ardal’s excited voices fade into distant babbling as Einin shuts the door behind them.

“You know, when I send and receive correspondence from my office, Nenae does not have the chance to look at it, even with their army of agents,” she tells them pointedly, “A letter is not a gift, but I think they still have the power to be…quite encouraging.”

So saying, she offers them a small smile and slips out the door after their siblings.

Oisin smiles, too. They can easily send a letter from their workshop without their parents fretting and hanging on every word. Perhaps they can even ask Tonlen to direct his correspondence there, if their teacher does not mind too much.

They walk over to their desk and pull out several sheets of paper, bright and hopeful that this might be the start of something wonderful.

They do hope that Tonlen does not mean to send them spiders, though. 


	23. The Second Gift

The next gift Tonlen procures takes time.

He has a friend who works for Ghilan’nain as a beast illustrator. It’s a quite the fascinating job, something that he’d think Oisin would like if it didn’t involve observing animal dissections. His friend is responsible for diagramming and illustrating the many of the beasts Ghilan’nain creates. The illustrations and diagrams are bound in books that fit with other animals in the same class.

Tonlen avoids the books on the beasts meant to scare and focuses on the sweeter looking creatures. He manages to snag two books – one on types of Halla, and one on ridiculously cute fat bird creatures that inhabits the southern region of Mana’din’s territory. They’re an introduced species to try and fill a hole that Falon’din had inadvertently created. He apparently liked to eat the adorable creatures, because of course he did.

They are nice books. Expensive books.

It is two weeks since the festival and the books have still not arrived. An anxiety fills Tonlen about it, he doesn’t want Oisin feeling like he’s lost interest. So, he decides to send a letter ahead, explaining that he has not lost interest at all, the next gift is simply taking its sweet time. He tells them that the gift is coming from Ghilan’nain’s lands, not even from Arlathan.

He tells Oisin how he thinks of their dances daily, his head and heart are full with the courtship and he hopes his affections are returned. He rewrites it three times before finally sending it.

Two more weeks go by until the books finally arrive. Tonlen builds and paints a wooden box for them and attaches another letter. It isn’t the most traditionally romantic gift, but a gift that shows he’s paying attention, which can be romantic in its own way.

The books are beautiful, bound with exquisite leather and all the illustrations are painstakingly done.

He sends the books along and tries not to worry. Oisin was receptive at the festival, and he felt they were getting along well. They had encouraged him to send more gifts, communicate more. Maybe he truly is rusty at this because he doesn’t know if not hearing from Oisin yet is a bad sign.

He reminds himself that it’s still early and Oisin is inexperienced with a horde of very protective people around them. It’s most likely not that concerning that there hasn’t been any movement on that front.

And then, on a grey, dreary day with heavy clouds in the sky threatening another deluge of rain, a letter arrives. From Oisin. Tonlen takes the small envelope from the post office for the street and hurries home, forgetting the other mail that arrived for him. The lettering on the envelope is in a fine and neat script with a flourish on the long letters. There is a flare on the ‘T’ in Tonlen’s name that makes his heart flutter.

He makes it home, running up the stairs into his apartment, quickly shedding his coat and sweater, hanging them on the rack. He’s already tearing into the envelope by the time he sits in his favorite plush chair.

_Tonlen,_

_I received the wonderful books you sent. They are truly beautiful and I adore them! My mother says these books are difficult to acquire outside of Ghilan’nain’s territory, and yet you managed to get them and gift them to me. Thank you!_

_They have been wonderful additions to my library. I have even used the one on halla as references for some sketching. And the volume on the birds have been very popular at home! Papae reluctantly fawned over them for hours._

_I was so surprised to see so many different variants of halla! The chapter on the six-legged breeds were fascinating – I was so unsure if they existed and now I know for certain! I must thank you again for the gift, it is perfect._

_I find myself thinking often of the dances we shared at the festival. You were a vision in yellow. It was a dream to dance with you. You were kind and funny and I look forward to seeing you more in the future._

_Sincerely,_

_Oisin_

An embarrassingly sweet and delighted smile takes over Tonlen’s face. He reads the letter three times before sinking back into his chair feeling warm and soft. He bites his lip and curses the time he will need to spend before being able to give Oisin another gift. Money is such an inconvenient thing. It both makes sense and is very annoying. The economy ought to know he has an important courtship and waiting for _money_ to be able to advance it is absurd. But Oisin is understanding, Tonlen knows that much. And Oisin’s understanding is the most important part.

After reading it another time through, Tonlen sets it away in one of his keepsake boxes – a small wooden box, hand-made and painted. Papae always liked to say that when you set to learning how to create one thing, you end up interested in how to create other things. Woodwork had not been Tonlen’s forte, but he can make little boxes. He’s no esteemed painter he is sure Oisin will become, but he can paint a box to be visually pleasing. And it fits, he thinks, to place Oisin’s letter in something he’s made, painted with care.

They are absolutely darling. For the rest of the day, Tonlen sounds like he is from a smutty romance novel. Sighing and humming and feeling light as a feather as he goes about his routine. It’s ridiculous but he can’t bring himself to care. The day may be grey and unhappy, but Tonlen might as well be on the top of one of those clouds.

For the next few weeks, Tonlen works on his commissions and puts in extra time to restock his shop. He writes another letter to Oisin in earnest explaining how delighted he is that Oisin is receptive and enjoying the gifts. He also explains that while he will certainly send more, he is only ranked so high, and makes only so much money. It is a request for patience and understanding. A few days later, another letter from Oisin arrives, and they are as understanding as they could be.

Tonlen has already planned the next gift. It’s to be a commissioned work from a local luthier – a desktop sized harp that is enchanted to play the songs they danced to at the festival. It took some digging, but he discovered the titles of the song and now he is simply generating the money necessary to afford the commission.

It is five weeks until he can comfortably go to the luthier. The harp will be gold with little aquamarine stones up the side. All Oisin will have to do is touch the top stone for the first song, and the middle stone for the second song. During that time, Tonlen and Oisin exchange letters and he even manages to send small gifts. He asks Papae for a pair of white-gold dangling earrings that twist similar to halla antlers. The only price he ends up having pay for those is telling his parents he is courting someone new. They pepper him with questions and fawn over him starting a new romance.

“We were so concerned after Lithadra, you had lost interest,” Papae says, packaging the earrings.

Tonlen rolls his eyes, “It was mutual, Papae.” But Papae looks down at him with knowing eyes. True, it was not exactly Tonlen’s idea at the beginning, but he came around to see that there was no alternative. Lithadra wanted to see other people, Tonlen was uncomfortable, but he couldn’t justify not letting Lithadra be himself either. Any other solution other than breaking up would have been unfair to both of them.

“Alright, alright, it was mutual. But I am still happy for you, and happy whoever this is – they are lucky to have such a wonderful man pursue them.” He wraps his arms around Tonlen and kisses his temple.

“Papaaaae!” He protests, wriggling free. Really, he’s nearing three hundred and his father continues to act like he’s five. He smooths out his clothing then rights his hair. “Really, father, I’m fine. Daran is treating me well and the courtship is…it’s exciting.”

Papae’s face softens then a large grin spreads from ear to ear and Tonlen can feel it coming.

“I am so happy you are happy.”

“And what,” his mother voice echoes from the main part of the house, “is the lucky elf’s name?”

Telling Papae in person is one thing, telling _Memae_ is another. He had to talk her down from getting Lithadra demoted when their relationship ended, which is more than anything she has done in retaliation against Ileth’s former paramours. Between the two, Memae has always been the one to be dangerously protective of Tonlen. He knows it’s because of his birth and childhood, how he struggled to breathe, how it affected his abilities the entirety of his childhood – but again, he is nearing three hundred, he doesn’t need his mother and father watching him like this.

But…they are his parents, and he loves them.

“Oisin,” he tells them, “they’re going to be a painter.”

“Going to be?” Memae says, stepping down from the house and into the workshop, “how much younger are they?”

“They’re still an apprentice, but into their second century.”

Memae frowns, “They seem awfully young…”

“Mother, you were nearing nine hundred when you met Papae.”

Papae chuckles, “He’s right, my love. Our boy takes after his beautiful mother.” Tonlen averts his eyes from parents, knowing full well what that affectionate tone means.

“Thank you for the earrings, Papae, I should…go,” he says, trying to escape.

“Nonsense, darling, you’re staying for dinner.”

He can’t exactly say no.

He ends up staying the night, reluctantly telling them about the courtship – from meeting Oisin in his shop to the festival to their now regular letters. Papae seems thrilled and inquires about Oisin’s appearance and station and likes that Tonlen is certain he is already planning different adornments for them. Memae seems…less thrilled. It’s not that she is outright disapproving, but her concern is clear. He can see her taking mental notes and he knows she’ll be looking into Oisin after this. Which may not be good for anyone. Having his mother dig around for information on a Spymaster’s child, even if she is not aware they are the Spymaster’s child…hm. He should tell her, but they’re both so happy right now, and this is his life.

He asks for them not to interfere and pointedly looks at his mother. He has this handled.

By the time dinner is done, it is too late for him to safely travel the Crossroads back to Daran. He stays in his old room and even though it has been hundreds of years, they have yet to convert it back into a proper library. There are still shelves on the left wall, but his bed is still there, as are various art projects he has taken on over the course of his life. There is a misshapen glass orb from when he tried glass blowing. It only took one lesson for Memae to freak out and forbid it – the heat could hurt his lungs after all. Next to the orb is one of his sketchbooks. This one is dedicated to the fashion ideas he had when he was younger. There is even an easel standing by the shelves.

Are all parents this sentimental? It’s hard to think of them not being so. Still, the familiarity of the space allows him to fall asleep quickly.

The next day, Tonlen travels back to Daran. He has more work to do along with earrings to send.

The following week, snow begins to fall, and it falls into the actual city. It is such a sight to see. There are runes in the street to melt the snow to keep things clear, but _still_. In Arlathan, he only ever saw snow from the tops of the buildings. The snow fell from the sky and as soon as it hit the bubble, the magical barrier generated over Arlathan for control, the flakes melted. The bubble wasn’t all over the city, just in the wealthier sections. The bubble curved and districts with the lower ranked received snow.

It does present a challenge to him, though. He needs better winterwear. Because he’s been tied up with a sudden influx of commissions, he can’t make his own suitable winter boots. And he needs a better coat.

Another local cobbler chuckles at him, calling him a “newbie” to the city before providing him with a pair of nice boots in his size. They’re…not what he would have made, but they’ll do. Next, he heads to a clothier and purchases a heavy fur trimmed coat. The brown matches the boots, but at least the white fur stands out.

It’s difficult, sometimes, being the rank he is and loving clothing as much as he does. Memae is ranked higher and she has access to all of these beautiful couture gowns and robes and _so much_. He used to, when he was a child, have access, but now that he’s an adult…. It’s not uncommon for him to push the boundaries of what he is allowed to wear. Some providers, such as himself, don’t take rank as seriously as they probably should. Others are horrendously staunch and even mentioning something beyond what is allowed will prevent a commission. Is it wrong to want a higher rank just so he can have prettier clothes and jewelry?

….

No, it’s not. There were plenty in Sylaise’s service that seemed to claw their way to rank _just_ to show off their rank with clothes and jewelry.

But he is what he is, and he enjoys what he does. His rank isn’t going to change any time soon.

It takes another week for the harp to be finished. The luthier is apparently exceptionally pleased with himself. So much that he charges an extra fee for making it that much more wonderful than Tonlen had apparently requested. He pays the fee but makes a note to not commission this man again. Sudden fees for add-ons are discourteous and treacherous. A price is agreed upon at the first meeting, and that is the price that should be paid. Precluding any unforeseen expenses _necessary_ for the completion of the commission, the agreed upon price is what is to be paid. Charging a “I threw this extra thing in without your permission” fee is deceptive and wrong. It’s why Tonlen never charges for his “I threw this in because I knew it would enhance the look” add-ons.

Tonlen’s smile is forced as he takes the harp and leaves the store. Presumptive man! He should have looked into other luthiers more closely. But what’s done is done, the harp is spectacular and will play like a charm.

He packages it in one of his signature boxes and sends along another poem _and_ letter. The waiting is the worst part. Will Oisin like the harp? Will they recognize the songs? As happy as they have seemed to be, he still wonders if they will like what he sends.

Days after he has sent the harp, he receives another letter. Oisin loves it! It brought all the memories back and the music is beautiful and oh thank goodness they like it. They’ve set it on their night stand and take to playing it whenever they are in a mood to reminisce. Words written in gold could not have made Tonlen happier.

Tonlen is so happy that he almost misses a small detail towards the end of the letter.

_As I write this, listening to the second song, I realize that I want to see you again. I know we’ve thought about it in previous letters, and now I want to put thoughts into actions._

They then provide a few days and times they are free. He has to read it three times for it to sink in. Oisin wants to see him. They are not initiating a day exactly, just making it known they are free – leaving the actual initiation to Tonlen. He is fine to take the opening and hastily writes back.

He tells them he is filled with joy to know they are enjoying his gifts so much. And after some filler, he replies to their request. Luckily, they both have an upcoming rest day in common. It’s ten days away but it will allow for easier traveling and less concern over having to keep the visit short. He invites them to the Seasonal Gardens in Daran.

Two days later, Tonlen receives Oisin’s answer. They will be there in eight days’ time at midday.

Relief surges through Tonlen only to be quickly replaced with the sweet anxiety of anticipation. He fusses about in the apartment and spends entirely too much of his time thinking about what he’ll say, do, and of course _wear_. Unfortunately, due to the weather, he can’t do what he normally does – wear something that hugs his figure and makes the imagination run wild. But perhaps that is a good thing – leading with sex is most likely not a good idea. Still, he wants to look radiant and enticing. Even if all Tonlen has is a heavy brown coat and matching boots.

The days pass quickly, and before he has a real chance to process it, the day has arrived. Tonlen wakes early and sets about getting ready. He begins his day at the baths, scrubbing himself clean and making himself soft. He replaces the lingering musk of leather with a coconut and vanilla scent. He dresses in a simple, but well-made turquoise gown with sleeves that are long and spill out from the rich brown winter coat. It is a heavier gown, made to keep him warm, which he appreciates as he tends to run cold. His hair is put up into an intricate array, pinned with silver ornaments. Before he puts on his coat, he dons a light gossamer shrug with a hood, which he pins to cover his hair and to frame his face with the delicate lace work around the hem of the hood.

Even though there is a support heel in the boots he has purchased, it is not great. He will be shorter than Oisin, which is no issue truly – and it is likely a good thing since high heels are prone to slipping on slick surfaces. Still, he misses his heels.

Tonlen is rushing only slightly by the time he is done. They agreed upon lunching first then strolling the gardens if they felt up to it. He sincerely hopes they do. The restaurant they are meeting at serves a bit of everything, a safe choice for any first foray into courtship.

The restaurant is only a street over from the gardens, but Tonlen ends up having to take an Eluvian from his place in the crafts district to the more luxurious garden district. It’s happening, it’s really happening. 

It’s a bit ridiculous that he feels like this. He’s done this before, it’s not like he’s _new_ at this like Oisin. They have every right to be this nervous, but Tonlen should be better at this by now. Feel a bit less like he’s going to faint from the nervous energy, at the very least. And yet, here he is, feeling nervous and excited and every bit like he did when he was first being courted. But he does have one thing he did not know before – how to conceal it. His aura is calm and private even as he is internally scrunched up with nerves.

Tonlen steps into the restaurant, carefully removing his gloves as he wanders through the space to find the table he had reserved. He finds that Oisin has beaten him to it. However, judging by how Oisin is only just removing their… _his_ gloves, he hasn’t been here long. Tonlen notes the change and moves confidently to the table.

Oisin turns and simultaneously blushes and smiles upon seeing Tonlen. There is an uncertain air around him, not just the expected shyness but a worry as well as he rises to greet Tonlen.

“Oisin, it’s lovely to see you,” Tonlen says, smiling.

“It’s lovely to see you, too,” he replies as Tonlen takes off his coat and hangs it on the coatrack next to their table. They take their seats and some of the worry eases away from Oisin, replaced by spikes of excitement. Good.

He is dressed in subtle and warm finery. His blue tunic is long with embroidery along his collar and sleeves. The fabric looks dense and well made for holding warming enchantments – good. Tonlen would hate to think he is cold. Besides that, the blue is a perfect shade for Oisin. It brings out the golden quality of his hair and matches his eyes.

“You are radiant as always, a welcome reprieve from the dreary weather,” he compliments as they take their seats.

“Thank you. Winter can be nice, though, the world is blanketed with snow, there are fires in the hearths…warm beverages.”

Tonlen finds he is in no mood to resist any of his cheekiness as he leans forward, a devious smile upon his lips, “And of course there are the other tried and true ways to stay warm.” He pauses while Oisin’s mind catches to his meaning before continuing, “Soft blankets and capes, of course.” He winks and Oisin snorts. He quickly covers his lower face, blushing fiercely. He is entirely too adorable.

“I will fetch us some food – do you have any requests?” He asks. Oisin shakes his head.

“I trust your judgement.”

“Wonderful.” Tonlen heads off and gathers up several options. He grabs two pot pies, a couple of sweet buns, a vegetable platter, and orders a pot of tea. He returns to Oisin with a full tray and lays out the spoils with glee. Oisin hums his approval and they settle in with their food. Tonlen talks about some of his commissions and some designs he wants to try, even in his spare time. Oisin is an eager listener and asks as much as talks about his own progress. But Tonlen is also eager to hear about Oisin’s work.

The lunch is wonderful. They don’t seem to run out of things to talk about. They laugh and enjoy the food, and it’s only when Tonlen moves to pour himself more tea to find the pot empty, does he realize how much time has passed.

“I’m afraid we’ve run dry,” he says, setting the teapot down.

“We could tour the gardens like you initially suggested,” Oisin says. Tonlen agrees. The restaurant is lovely but they both could use the fresh air, and potentially more privacy.

They don their outerwear and leave the restaurant. Oisin steps ahead of Tonlen and into the whitened world looking like a bright vision of spring in his green cape and glove set. Tonlen follows him out and offers his arm. Oisin takes his arm and they stroll along the street to the gardens.

The gardens are enclosed by crystalline fences and a gate that is built to resemble an eluvian. They stride inside and Tonlen’s eyes wander to the fence. It is made from some sort of iridescent metal that is made to look like icicles, but softer. Light bounces off the metal and creates small rainbow-like patterns on the ground and it makes Tonlen itch to create a shoe with a heel that can do the same.

“I should make a line of shoes that look like this,” he muses, looking back up to Oisin, “I could try them on you. Do you enjoy heels?”

A flush colors Oisin’s cheeks before he replies, “I enjoy them on you.” A flirt! His grin gives way to a chuckle. He leans into Oisin happily.

“On myself, I don’t know. I’m tall in my family, I never felt the need for heels,” Oisin continues.

“Darling, everyone can benefit from heels,” Tonlen drawls, glancing down Oisin’s figure. A beautiful figure that could be devastating in heels.

“I think my brother would be very sour if I came home even taller than I already am.” Well, that’s just wrong. If Oisin wants to be tall and get that from heels, he ought to do it.

“ _He_ can very much benefit from heels,” he replies. Oisin has described his family in his letters, marking that Ardal takes after their mother and is quite short.

Oisin snorts, “If you could wrangle him out of his dirty footwraps or clogs –

“ _Clogs_?” Tonlen asks in horror. How…how could this tall, elegant, beautifully dressed, and absolutely dazzling person be related to someone who wears _clogs_? The unmitigated horror.

“Yes, clogs. Virevas threw a pair out a few years ago, and he retaliated by finding a pair even more hideous.”

“Oisin, this hurts me.” He can respect vengeance in the form of a shoe but a clog is not a _shoe._ A stiletto is a shoe, a boot is a shoe, strappy little sandals are shoes, but a clog is…a sick mockery of his art.

“I think it’s a point of pride for him at this point,” Oisin continues, but his voice wavers and there is a concerned wrinkle in his brow. Tonlen smooths his free hand over Oisin’s hand on his arm.

“How anyone can find pride in that is a marvel,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, “not as much of as a marvel as you, of course.” Tonlen smiles as Oisin blushes and glances down at his feet. Tonlen takes the moment to look around them and admire the garden. The plants that survive winters are usually prickly fellows, dark contrastive greens against the white of the snow. But the gardens are different, the plants are in pastel harmony with the snow. He is sure the plants have been bred to be like this for this very purpose, but it is still pretty, and he has less trepidation about it all in Mana’din’s territories. She doesn’t strike him as a woman who wastes resources for plants that are merely aesthetically pleasing. They pass under an archway covered in wintry ivy and enter a new part of the garden, decorated less by foliage but by stones and intricate water displays.

“The garden is so beautiful this time of year,” Oisin says softly. Tonlen has to agree but he takes note of how the direct compliment seemed to be almost too direct for Oisin’s comfort.

“It is, and it is made more beautiful by being able to share it with you,” he replies.

Oisin ducks his head once more, but he smiles too, “You enjoy flustering me.”

“Is it a problem?”

“No,” he says in haste, “I am not used to it, I suppose.”

“Would you like me to stop? Or at least tone it down, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable,” he says, making sure to sound as sincere and understanding as possible.

Oisin pauses for a moment, “I think I like it?”

Tonlen considers it, “Then perhaps let us speak of something else? I enjoy hearing your thoughts.” Oisin nods at that and they move onto different topics. Tonlen tells Oisin some stories from Arlathan.

“When I was…I want to say just on the cusp of two-hundred, I was invited to a winter ball by a mid-ranking attendant. They wanted to make a former lover jealous by bringing me. They were quite upfront about it, which was fine with me. I would not be permitted to attend such an event otherwise and I desperately wanted to attend. So, I went with them. What they did _not_ inform me was that since I was lower ranking than everyone else, I was only permitted to wear significantly fewer fabrics afforded to the higher ranks. But other fabrics were seen as tacky to be paired with the in-fashion fabrics – which lead me to wearing a skimpy wrap around my hips, and a scarf on my shoulders. Everyone else wore full robes and capes of the desired fabrics. There was one other dressed as I was. My date ended up spending most of their time trying to one up their former lover, so I was left to my own devices. The girl and I spoke at length, huddling by one of the few fireplaces, trying to stay warm. As it turned out, _she_ was the date of my date’s former lover.”

“Goodness, that sounds awful,” Oisin interjects. Tonlen pauses. He’s always found this particular story funny. Him, scantily dressed with a fellow low ranking craftsperson, connected by their terrible higher ranking dates. Those in Arlathan find the tale amusing, but then again…it’s not exactly an abnormal story there.

“I was uncomfortable at the time, but it turned out well in the end. The former lover ended up challenging my date to a duel over the insult of taking _me_ instead of her. My date challenged back for taking Gratitude, the other lower ranked, instead of them. Then a _third_ challenger appeared – a higher ranking military officer who challenged them both to a duel for despoiling the night for the petty grudges in such crude displays. Both my date and Gratitude’s date left the ball demoted and shamed. The military officer was so affronted by the whole display that he offered us both robes and allowed us to remain at the ball.” Tonlen is chuckling by the end but Oisin is, for lack of a better word, horrified.

“Oisin?” He asks softly.

“That is a _terrible_ story,” he whispers softly, “how they just…felt entitled to _use_ you like that! Both of you!”

It seems Tonlen’s endeavor to not upset Oisin backfired spectacularly as Oisin sniffles and Tonlen can tell he is holding back tears.

“Oh dear,” he stops and turns, reaching up to look directly at Oisin. He smiles sweetly and tucks a strand of stray hair behind his ear.

“I am terribly sorry for upsetting you. It is such a ridiculous story to me, and it had a good ending!” He tries to argue but it does not ease the air of incredulous horror around Oisin.

“They treated you so poorly!”

Tonlen bites back his response that it is in the attendants’ purview to treat Tonlen however they feel. That Tonlen felt honored more than anything to be able to attend the ball.

This land and culture of Mana’din’s is so very different.

“They did, but they also got their comeuppance. Gratitude and I are still friends. She makes the most spectacular hats. I could get you one, if you’d like – Arlathan is in the midst of a feather trend, I could get you a hat with a plume of peacock feathers,” he says in an attempt to redirect the convseration.

“Why aren’t you upset by this?” Oisin asks softly.

Tonlen sighs, “Because it’s been a hundred years, I’ve had a long time to not be upset. And it’s not exactly an uncommon story. Well, it is in a way. But in that there was a nice military officer who allowed me and Gratitude to experience the ball. We ended up having fun at an event we never would have seen otherwise, and the offending parties were punished for behaving poorly. It’s amusing because for once, the lower ranked got to have more fun. We were uncomfortable, and we were used, but it turned out all right in the end.” This also does not help ease the frown on Oisin’s face, but he sighs, and his shoulders relax.

“Is it terribly selfish of me to say I am very glad you are with Mana’din now?” His voice is soft and sincere and it makes Tonlen’s heart ache. He smiles and shakes his head.

“No, it’s not,” he replies.

He is unsure of who leans forward first, but at some point they have grown close and Oisin is leaning down as Tonlen leans forward. Their foreheads rest against each other and peace suffuses the moment. Oisin’s upset seems to ease away from him and Tonlen hums in contentment. Oisin is warm and so full of kindness that it almost makes Tonlen feel the same way about that story. Almost. Still, he focuses on the feel of Oisin’s warm forehead and his breath on his cheek. The feeling of being just slightly shorter and being comforted by someone younger and less aware of how the rest of the world works. It is a good feeling. It is a feeling that Tonlen wants to melt into, melt into Oisin. He does almost that with how he nearly presses his body up to Oisin’s, seeking contact he has not had in a long time.

“You are a wondrous person, Oisin,” he whispers, not wanting to break their little bubble, “full of goodness and kindness. You grace me with your affections.” His hands trail up Oisin’s arms, slipping past his cape. Oisin mimics the gesture and a sigh escapes his lips.

“You deserve to not be used like that.”

“The world would be a better place if more people felt as you do.” It really would. And perhaps…perhaps Sylaise had been right to trade Tonlen to Mana’din. In truth, he had been growing a bit weary at the social dynamics of Arlathan. He misses the fashion, but he admits the atmosphere in Daran is decidedly…easier to live with. And Oisin is decidedly much kinder than most of Arlathan’s denizens – and exceptionally more honest.

Perhaps there is truth to what he is saying. Tonlen grew up in Arlathan, such stories aren’t abnormal to him, and he always expected to be used at least a little bit. He is not _poor_ , but at the time he was a middling cobbler. Not a high rank, not reputable, just…middling. But he made out like a thief in a way from that ball. He had made his own shoes for the night and he ended up with some of his first few elite clients. The ball elevated him while it denigrated his date. Arlathan can be cruel and mercurial, it is difficult to live there, but there is also an allure to living there.

They stay like that for long moments, wrapped up in each other. They listen to the water flows around them and slowly the tension bleeds away to comfort. Tonlen is the first to pull away.

“Come, we have spent enough time being morose. It was a long time ago, and now I’m here, in this lovely garden with you. I’d like to enjoy that.” Even as he leaves the embrace, he takes Oisin’s hand and his date smiles in return.

“I’d like that. And I can tell you stories that are actually happy,” he says in a determined voice.

But Tonlen smiles and nods, “I’d like that.”


	24. A Kiss

Oisin wakes up well before dawn, both to ensure that she has enough time to make all the necessary preparations for the day, in an effort to get the bath all to herself, for once. Not that she dislikes bathing with her siblings, but there is almost always a squabble over what temperature it should be set to and what scent to use in the water, whether they should pick bubbles or bath oils; that sort of thing. It is the sort of family bickering in which Oisin inevitably finds herself almost immediately overrun, while the more boisterous members of her family dig their heels in and refuse to surrender any ground. Normally, she does not mind, but today is special.

She is going to see Tonlen today, and she wants everything to be perfect.

They have been courting for almost a year and a half now, and Oisin finds Tonlen just as charming and handsome as she did the first day he spoke to her in his shop. They do not get to see each other half as often as she would like, and someone from her family is almost always hovering in close proximity when they do, but they have at least managed to keep up a healthy correspondence. Which has mercifully remained private from her parents’ prying eyes. 

At least…she _hopes_ it has. Oisin feels like she would die of mortification if anyone in her family had ever read some of the warmer sentiments that have passed between herself and her paramour.

Unfortunately, sentiments are nearly all that has been passed between them thus far. In the form of courtship gifts, lingering touches, and a heated glance now and then. All of those things are lovely, of course, and Oisin is by no means complaining about any of the attention that Tonlen has lavished her with thus far. As far as a first courtship goes, it has been absolutely perfect -despite the constant hovering of her parents.

She just… _really_ wants Tonlen to kiss her.

Oisin understands that between her inexperience with romance and the concerns of her family, Tonlen is being cautious. Taking things slowly and taking more traditional routes than most couples do nowadays. She does not mind it, for the most part, but she does think that after a year, it is probably alright to be kissing each other. 

Assuming that Tonlen _wants_ to kiss her.

She is fairly certain that he does, though. He has said as much in words and flashes of heat in the emotions around him when they are together. And there had been a few moments here and there where she had been sure it was going to happen, and then one of her family members had interrupted. Oisin just needs to make sure that she is _irresistible_ today. And that they actually get to be alone.

One feat is much more easily managed than the other.

Oisin perfumes the bath with an orchid soap, a cool fresh scent -also one of Tonlen’s favorite flowers- and lets it soak into her skin. Luxuriating in the warm water and trying to locate a bit of calm to carry with her for the day. She washes her hair with expensive conditioner that Papae bought her in Arlathan and brushes it until it shines like a wave of spun gold. It takes her over an hour to get through the whole routine; creamy lotions, delicate paints for her nails, and a gentle exfoliant for her face to brighten her complexion. It will not hide her freckles, but Tonlen has never mentioned anything about finding them objectionable, so they are probably fine.

The next step is clothing. Tonlen is a very meticulous dresser, having lived so long among the flashy city-types in Arlathan, and requiring a knowledge of fashion trends to ply his trade. Oisin usually relies on her sisters for advice on how to dress. She finds too many things beautiful to keep track of what has fallen out of favor with the trend-setters. They are going to be out in the woods today, though, so she also needs something practical. Stylish and practical do not often go hand in hand. 

It had taken a good deal of sweet talking, along with some forward charm from Mealla, and some subtle bargaining from Einin -which she still denies doing- but Oisin has managed to procure two harts for the day. At a reasonable price, no less. Most of the animals in Bel'thyl are used for farm work, there is no sense or need to keep animals for recreational purposes. Even the elves that hunt in the village usually do so on foot or in animal form. These harts belong to the town magistrate, and are usually only called to work when some rare visiting dignitary needs to be shown around without having to fret about stepping in ox dung.

Going for a ride had been Oisin’s idea, as it is one of the few physical activities she excels at. It would have been much more romantic to ride a pair of halla, of course, but Tonlen does not have clearance to learn about Mana'Din’s Hidden Estate, and it would attract far too much attention to bring any of Mamae’s herd to Daran or Bel'thyl. Neither of them are the proper rank to ride halla yet, and Mana'Din only officially has one of them. A magnanimous gift from the Lady Ghilan'nain. Someday Oisin hopes she can take Tonlen to meet the rest of them, though. They are a marvel to behold, and Oisin always feels calm around them. More certain of themselves. She would like to share that with someone she loves. It would be so lovely to lie in the grass together, watching the halla graze and telling him all the stories about them and the Dalish elves from other worlds that Aili and Lavellan had told them when she was little.

But today she must content herself with a pair of harts and a long ride out into the woods.

She chooses a bright peachy pink as the color of the day. Her riding coat is a more feminine cut than some of her other clothing, accentuating the narrowness of her shoulders and her slim waist. It is a soft suede, patterned with a small floral print, and it seamlessly flows into a creamy knee-length skirt with just enough of a slit up one side to give a tantalizing glimpse of her legs as she walks and can easily be moved out of the way while she rides. At the last minute, she decides that a pair of leggings are in order, to reduce the risk of chafing her thighs against the saddle, and to appease her Papae if he should happen to catch sight of her before she manages to escape for the day.

Oisin twirls once in front of her mirror, pleased with the effect of all the swishing fabric. It is early spring, and she looks a little like a blossom that escaped its bough. Her boots are a little plain, and she can only manage to get her hair into a simple braid on her own, but she thinks her appearance is pleasing enough. Definitely kissable.

Hopefully.

It is still a few hours before Tonlen is supposed to meet her, but Oisin thinks it might be better to leave now. Before any nosy siblings and fretting parents are up and about. Nenae is still in Daran on business, and Nanae asked Mamae to stay in their room last night, which usually means a slow morning for both of them the next day. And Papae sleeps like a rock. So, with any small amount of luck, she will be able to slip out the door without bothering anyone. And perhaps, just once, she can be truly alone with the man who is courting her.

Such hopes are dashed when she nearly runs headlong into Einin on her way to the front entrance.

“You’re up early,” she notes casually, raising a brow and scrutinizing her with sharp silvery eyes, “Going somewhere fun?”

“It’s my rest day,” Oisin mumbles, glancing away. She can never manage to conceal anything, especially not from Einin, who seems to have been born with some innate secret-detecting abilities. “I thought it would be pleasant to go for a morning ride.”

“By yourself?” she wonders, her mouth twitching up into the beginnings of a smile. It is clear that she has already surmised the truth. Oisin winces.

“Please don’t tell,” she implores, “It will only be for a few hours. And just once…just this once, I want to be alone with him. Please?”

“I understand,” Einin assures her, “but our parents will be in hysterics if you just vanish without saying anything.”

“I told Mamae that I was going to go riding on my day off,” she tells her, “I just…did not say when or with whom. You can tell them that I will be in the woods east of the town if they need to come find me for something important. I just do not…wish to speak of love with Papae or Nanae looming over our shoulders.”

Einin snorts.

“I will tell them, but they will not like it,” she says. She looks them over for a moment. Contemplative. “Is that how you are going to wear your hair?”

“It was the best I could manage on my own,” Oisin admits with an air of chagrin.

Her sister takes her hand, pulling her back towards her own bed chambers.

“We can do better than that.”

It takes the better part of an hour, but by the time they are through, Oisin’s hair has a dozen smaller braids in it, all twisted and plaited back from her face in an intricate net-like pattern and woven into a single long rope that falls to her waist. Dozens of little jeweled hair pins have been tucked into it, all of them crafted to look like tiny wildflowers. Pansies made of garnet and sapphires. Amethyst violets. Opal daisies. And delicate sprigs of baby’s breath made from pearls and slender twists of silver wiring.

Oisin must admit that the effect is lovely, and they say as much while Einin digs around in a box near her vanity.

“My supervisors think much the same,” Einin hums, finally unearthing a pair of little golden studs shaped like roses and passing them to her sibling, “They are certain that these will be all the rage this spring, so long as they can convince the right high-ranking elf to wear them, and so they have asked me to use my connections in my large and fairly prominent family to stir up some interest. Try not to lose any of them, though. I think they still want Papae to pay for them if he ends up liking them.” 

“These aren’t yours?” Oisin baulks.

“I have them on loan,” Einin confirms, patting her shoulder, “And you have them on loan from me.”

“Thank you,” Oisin says quietly, not quite able to keep the sniffle out of her voice, “They are so beautiful. I’m sure they are well beyond my personal credit limit, otherwise I would offer to buy a few of them myself. I’m certain that Tonlen would enjoy getting one or two as a courtship gift. He always finds me such beautiful things, and most of my gifts for him have been handmade by me.”

She sighs deeply. 

“Unfortunately, I do not think you were the clientele my supervisors were hoping for,” Einin tells her gently, moving back over to the box the flowers came in a digging around a bit before pulling out a small bundle of pink tissue paper, “Papae and Nenae get seen by all sorts of important people every day. People who want to emulate their taste and style. No one else in our family wields that kind of influence. Yet.”

She holds the bundle out for them to take.

“This might help, though, if you are set on offering your cobbler a gift today.”

Oisin blinks at her in surprise before taking the mysterious item from her hands and carefully unwrapping it. Inside are three ornamental hair combs, each decorated with different varieties of spring flowers. White lilies set against silver, pink roses on bronze, and blue irises on gold.

Oisin gasps in delight.

“They are so lovely!” she exclaims, “Are you sure I can afford one of them?”

“Normally, the answer would probably be ‘no’,” Einin smirks, “but these are from last year, and my supervisors agreed that I could keep one of them as a reward for convincing Papae to wear the other ones.”

“Oh, but then this is yours!” Oisin exclaims, “I couldn’t possibly take a prize you earned for yourself! And what if you can’t get Papae to wear these little ones?”

“Let me worry about Papae,” Einin waves her off, “And I have plenty of other ornaments for my hair. One less is not going to ruin any of my ensembles.”

“You really don’t mind giving it to me?” Oisin checks, “Just like that?”

“Well, I would be lying if I said I was not interested in getting some form of compensation for it,” Einin hums thoughtfully.

“What can I give you?” Oisin asks doubtfully, “You already said that I probably don’t have the credits for it.”

“There are plenty of things that are worth intrinsically more than credit,” Einin informs them smoothly, “We will work out a satisfactory arrangement later, but for now, I think you had better get going. Mamae and Nanae will likely be up soon.”

Oisin smiles at her, nodding once in acceptance before folding the comb with the blue irises into a handkerchief, tucking it into a coat pocket, and heading back towards the front door as quickly and quietly as they can.

They do not reach the eastern edge of the forest as soon as they would like. The stable master had been less than thrilled at Oisin’s early arrival, mumbling and grumbling to himself as he went about preparing the two harts for a day’s ride. Purposely moving slow. Oisin could not quite muster the nerve to try and hurry him along. After all, there are many people who dislike being awake and active in the morning, and it did not seem like something worth starting a fight over.

The animals both seem calm enough, despite the hour. The larger of the harts is a soft gray-brown with purple markings on its legs and face, while the smaller one is white and cream. Oisin leads them both by their bridals to her intended meeting spot with Tonlen.

It would have been much easier to meet him at the Eluvian in Bel'thyl, but Oisin had been worried about other townsfolk seeing them together and snitching on her to her parents. Not that she is ashamed to be with Tonlen in the _least_ , she just…does not want any interruptions. Today is going to be special, she can just feel it.

The time for their meeting comes and goes, and Oisin begins to feel a prickle of concern. Worried that something might have happened to Tonlen on his way here. Or that he has somehow lost interest in her since their last exchange of letters.

Such doubts are quelled instantly when she spots a figure swathed in pale yellow green hurrying down the path as fast as his legs will carry him without breaking into a run.

“I am so sorry for being late!” Tonlen pants, doubling over for a moment to catch his breath, “I missed the turn at the farm with the yellow shutters you told be about and ended up in the middle of a wheat field.”

Oisin giggles and takes a few steps closer to him, happiness shimmering in the air around her. His tunic is a riot of yellow and white flowers blooming across a field of green, like a meadow that she would very much like to lie down in for an afternoon. His hair is braided back from his face, but left loose to tumble down his back in a way that make her want to put her hands in it. And the combination of snug leggings and thigh-high boots is…very pleasant.

Oisin gulps thickly, feeling a faint blush rising in her cheeks. It feels like it would be a bit presumptuous to ask for a kiss right now. But she wants one anyway.

“Um, I thought…I thought since you were the less experienced rider, you should ride Tulip,” she tells him softly, handing him the reins for the cream-colored hart, “They are both gentle, but she’s a little older, and the stable master said she tends to go at a steadier pace.” 

Tonlen takes the reins with only a small amount of hesitance, before seeming to find his resolve and giving his mount a friendly pat on her neck.

“How do I… Is there some special trick to getting on?” he wonders.

“You put one foot in the left stirrup, grab hold of the saddle, and pull your leg up over the other side,” Oisin says, “I can help, if you like.”

“Please,” Tonlen replies with a smile.

Oisin ties her hart to a tree for a moment and comes over to give Tonlen a leg up into his saddle. They don’t quite make it on the first try, but with a little more strength exerted and a bit of flailing, they get him up into his seat. Tonlen shifts around a bit, trying to find the best way to sit comfortably, the hart moves her feet around in response, which garners a worried glance from her rider, but Oisin just smiles.

“You are doing very well for a beginner,” she assures him, gently taking his foot in her hands, “Here, you need to keep your heels down like this. It helps distribute your weight across her back. Grip her sides with your knees or give her a little bit of a kick to go forward, and move the reins in the direction you want her to go. Do not tug on them too much if you can help it, though. She won’t like that.”

“Confidence is a fine look on you,” Tonlen commends warmly, adjusting his posture as directed and smiling down at Oisin. She blushes profusely, moving a hand up to rest lightly on his knee. Wishing their lips were in a much closer range of each other. She does not want to pull him back out of his saddle, though.

“However _I_ look, I am sure it is not half so fine as _you_ ,” she sighs instead, “It seems as though you must have escaped from a book of fairytales. The charming hero on his noble steed.”

Tonlen laughs.

“And does that mean you are my lovely princess?” he wonders smilingly.

“I certainly hope so,” Oisin replies, only feeling slightly shy about it, “I would not want to relinquish the title to anyone else.”

“There is no one else who is even remotely close to being worthy of it,” Tonlen promises.

“Good,” Oisin smiles, squeezing his knee a little. A heated moment passes, but they both seem painfully aware of the awkward physical distance between them, and so Oisin merely clears her throat and pats at Tonlen’s leg one last time before going to retrieve her hart.

The ride is just as pleasant as anticipated. The air is fresh and sweet. The sunlight sifts through canopies of leaves and flowers to dapple the forest floor, puddling here and there like pools of gold. They keep to the well-worn paths close to the town, moving at a slow steady pace to accommodate Tonlen’s inexperience. Side by side so they can still converse easily along the way.

“I can see why you are so fond of riding,” Tonlen says as they take a moment to stop and admire a particularly scenic glen that is carpeted with bluebells, “It is very relaxing, and the woods around your hometown are very beautiful.” 

“It can be exciting, too,” Oisin assures him, maneuvering her hart a little closer so that their legs are nearly brushing one another, “When you are feeling a bit more confident, we can try riding at a faster pace. The wind gets in your face and your heart beats quickly and it is just this amazing _rush_. Like flying without really leaving the ground.”

“We do not need to move at a faster pace for my heart to beat quickly,” Tonlen replies softly, his tone heavy with intention. Oisin finds herself blushing again, but she holds his gaze.

“Tonlen, I…um,” Oisin flounders, losing the nerve to ask for what she wants before the scentence is even half way out of her mouth, “I…have something to give you.”

She pulls the folded handkerchief out of her pocket and hands it to him, her fingers lingering on his skin for a few moments than might strictly be necessary.

“I am sorry it is not wrapped better,” she apologizes, “I knew I wanted to get you something, but I couldn’t find anything I liked until the last minute.”

“It’s beautiful,” Tonlen replies, beaming as he holds the blue iris comb up to admire it in the sunlight, “The color reminds me of your eyes.”

Oisin’s cheeks darken further.

“I thought it would look particularly nice with your hair color -not that I really think _any_ color would look bad on you, of course,” she stumbles, “Um, may I… That is…would you like me to help you put it on?” 

“If you like,” Tonlen agrees easily, leaning slightly in his saddle and angling his head closer.

Oisin takes the comb back from him and carefully slides it into his hair. He smells faintly sweet, like jasmine and honey, and she finds that is very hard not to bury her fingers in his dark tresses. The air between them warms with affection and desire, and Tonlen turns his face just a little bit closer towards her. The light catches in his eyes and a stray blossom falls from a nearby tree and lands, seemingly unnoticed, on top of his head.

Unthinking, Oisin reaches up to brush it away, bending over slightly so as not to muss Tonlen’s hair with the motion. It is a precarious position to sit in, but she finds herself pinioned by his gaze. It feels as the though whole world is holding its breath, waiting for something miraculous.

“There was a flower,” Oisin explains in a hoarse whisper, unconsciously leaning closer even as Tonlen does the same.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, the air around him sizzling with intent as he angles his head up slightly and presses his mouth against Oisin’s waiting lips.

The kiss is soft and slow and chaste. And for all that, Oisin can feel the heat of it burn straight through her, from the tips of her ears all the way down to her toes. Her heart hammers in her ears at the rush of it. The sudden joy. It feels as though a million flowers must have burst into bloom all at once.

It does not last very long, however, and when Toneln draws back slightly, he finds that Oisin is crying.

“I am so sorry!” he rushes to apologize, “I knew I should have asked first. I got so caught up in the moment, but I promise I will never do it again without your express permission. We do not have to kiss at all, in fact, if you find it objectionable…”

Oisin shakes her head vigorously.

“It wasn’t that,” she sniffles, wiping ineffectually at her eyes, “It was just…just _so_ wonderful. It was _perfect_. I mean, I hoped it would be like that, but…”

“Have you never kissed someone before?” Tonlen wonders, sounding surprised.

“No, I have,” Oisin chuckles wetly, “It just never felt like _that_.”

Tonlen reaches over to brush a few stray tears off her cheek with his thumb, expression thoughtful and eyes soft.

“Does that mean it would be alright if I kissed you again?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

“ _Please_ ,” Oisin sighs. 


	25. And What Came After

Oisin has always been a little bit more prone to crying than most.

Thenvunin remembers when she was little, running up to him with butterflies with broken wings and fledgling birds new from their nests, eyes wet and fretting that something bad had happened and some little creature had been hurt. _Can we help it, Papae?_

He remembers skinned knees and asthma attacks, never quite sparking as many tears as teasing siblings or sad thoughts or bad dreams.

So when Oisin comes back from her ‘day ride’ with tear tracks smudging the corners of her eyes, Thenvunin tries not to immediately launch into a whirlwind of concern. He is in the front garden, spending some time practicing his shapeshifting. He had tried a few other forms, but is currently still just holding his swan shape, as Oisin makes their way up the path. She does not seem to quite notice him at first, and meets Einin at the door.

“Was he a gentleman?” Einin asks.

Thenvunin’s decision to not make much of Oisin’s tear-streaked eye paint immediately screeches to a halt and reverses course. Before he can hear her reply, he rushes up from the front garden. Barely recollecting to change shape, for a moment he ends up caught between swan and elf and lets out a frantic _honk,_ before reforming himself a flurry of feathers.

Oisin blinks at him. Einin immediately reverses course back through the doorway, as Thenvunin checks her sister over with frantic concern.

“What happened?!” he demands. “Did he hurt you? Did he say something cruel? Did he touch you in untoward fashion?!”

Oisin keeps blinking for a moment, before hastily grasping him by the wrists.

“Papae, _no,”_ she insists. “Calm down, nothing bad happened!”

“Why were you crying?” he frets.

“Because!” Oisin replies. Then she hesitates. The hesitation sends Thenvunin’s nerves skyrocketing, seeing that look on her face. His daughter is many things but she is not a talented liar or secret keeper. _Something_ happened. That - that - ! That Tonlen made her cry! His imagination races with the possibilities. Some biting comment, some presumptuous demand. He might have even broken off their courtship, although Thenvunin thinks she would be more upset if that were the case. No, it was something else, something smaller that nevertheless brought tears to her eyes.

“What did he do?” he insists. He _knew_ the man was much too forward, much too _eager_ -

Thenvunin turns, nearly set upon marching down the road until he finds where that delinquent has gotten to and wringing the truth right out of _him._

“Papae, no, it is not - look, it just - I was _happy,_ Papae! I cried because I was _happy!”_ Oisin insists.

“Did he try to force you to do something-”

“ _Papae!”_ Oisin snaps.

Thenvunin comes up short at the sharp tone. He does not think he has ever heard her take that tone with him before. He has rarely heard her take it at all. Her hands tighten on his wrists in something like rebuke, and her eyes fill with tears. As frustration bubbles up from her, he does not need to guess why she might be crying _now._

Thenvunin does not have much recourse against Oisin’s tears.

“Sweetheart?” he asks.

She frowns at him, but her mouth wavers.

“You _cannot_ keep doing this,” she tells him.

“Doing what?” he asks, honestly unsure.

“You cannot keep suspecting Tonlen of doing horrible things!” Oisin insists. A tear slips down her cheek, and then another. And Thenvunin feels at once defensive and awful; as if he has been a terrible father, and yet, how could he not suspect some forward, flirtatious shoemaker of running wild with his daughter’s feelings?

Before he can rally a defense, though, Oisin sniffs. Her breath hitches, and his worries change shape. He gets a hand free to rub at her back. It has been years upon years since Oisin’s breathing was a problem, but even so. Every time he hears it stutter or hitch or cough, it is like hundreds of years vanish and she is small and sitting in his lap. Counting breaths with him until it all evens out again.

“Shh,” he soothes. “Alright, I am sorry, I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you.”

“Tonlen has done everything right!” Oisin insists, as her tears intensify. “He is kind and good and polite and I cried because I was so happy that I finally got to kiss him! Because we finally got a moment where everyone was not hanging all over our shoulders! Because he is beautiful and sweet and I love him! And I am so happy to love him, I love being in love, Papae, but I especially love being in love with Tonlen! I don’t understand why you _hate_ him so much!”

She bursts into sobs, and Thenvunin feels absolutely, positively wretched. His anger drains away, even if all of his suspicion does not.

Oisin reaches for him. He folds his arms around her, readily. She may be tall now but Thenvunin can still hold her to his chest, so he does. Murmuring some comforting words and then leading her inside, to where it is safe and warded and private. His chest twists as he realizes that Tonlen may have brought Oisin some tears, but Thenvunin’s fretting has just brought about many more.

“I do not hate Tonlen,” he says.

Oisin sniffs, but even through the tears, she manages to give him a skeptical look worthy of her nenae.

“Truly,” he insists, though. “I do not hate him. I would have probably treated anyone you courted like this.”

Oisin’s expression shifts towards despairing, but the tears calm down some. Thenvunin leads her into the sitting room. Rubbing at her back, and fighting the reflexive itch in his own eyes - really, he cannot stand it when his children cry - as he gets her a handkerchief and brushes some stray hair from her face. She looks very pretty, he realizes. Her braids are finely done and she is wearing some very lovely earrings, and her nicest riding outfit.

Thenvunin sighs.

“You grew up so quickly,” he murmurs.

Oisin sniffs, and dabs at herself with the handkerchief.

“You act like I never grew up at all,” she replies, dejectedly.

Thenvunin supposes he deserves that.

He settles down beside her, and to his relief, she slumps against him rather than pushing him aside. After a moment she wraps her arms around his arm, and presses her face to his shoulder.

“Tonlen is a good person,” she insists.

He supposes she has been insisting that an a lot.

“I would not fall in love with someone awful,” she declares.

Thenvunin hesitates, at that. She sounds certain. It is a familiar tone - like an echo from his own past. When his mother had admitted to not liking one of his early courtships. He had felt so hurt at her lack of joy for him, her lack of faith in his judgment. Of course, the target of his own affections had not been nearly as courteous as Tonlen.

But some had been. Or had come close to it, on the outside. Some of the better ones, who had still been bad for him.

“Sweetheart,” he says. “I want Tonlen to be a very good person. And… and I concede, he has done… well enough, so far.”

Oisin looks at him. Hopeful.

He hopes he is not about to dash those hopes.

“But…” he begins.

She leans away from him.

_“Papae,_ ” she protests, as her frustration comes back to the fore.

“No, no,” he says, gently. He settles a hand onto one of hers, and tries to project his calm in return. “I am not saying you are wrong about Tonlen. But this is something important, for… just in case you are, perhaps. Or in case you court someone else, someday.”

“I am not just going to break off our courtship-”

“And I am not saying to!” Thenvunin insists. She finally calms down at that. He lets out a long breath, and fixes her with a serious look. It calms her down further. Until she is sitting steadily by his side again, and waiting for him to speak.

“When I was your age, I fell in love with a horrible man,” he says.

It brings Oisin up a bit short. Of course, she knows that he had some rocky relationships before he met Uthvir, and then Uthlin and Aili. But he supposes he has never phrased it quite so bluntly before. Even to his own ears, the bold admission - to speak so of Sethtaren - seems excessive. Too cold, too uncompromising, too unfair.

He lets the doubt die, though, as he thinks of what he would do if someone like Sethtaren were to ever touch one of his children.

“I thought he was very sophisticated. Very smart. Worldly and insightful, and too good for me. You do not…” he shifts in place, and lets out a heavy breath. “The thing is, Oisin, I did not look at him and think he was a terrible person, but that I was going to love him anyway. I genuinely thought that he was good. And most people who fall in love with bad people, they do not think they are falling in love with bad people. They just think that they are falling in love.”

Oisin swallows.

“What makes you think Tonlen is a bad person?” she asks. Thenvunin is not sure he is quite getting through, but at least she is not crying again.

“Nothing,” he admits.

The answer takes her by surprise. He offers her a rueful smile, and squeezes her hand.

“Your mamae actually quite likes him, for the most part. Your siblings all say he is sweet and smitten, and seems quite sincere. And I think I have made a mistake, in hovering so much. Because now I am afraid that if he ever actually did something, you would not tell me. You would worry so much about my ‘over-reacting’ that you would keep it a secret, and then if things were to go more awry, you would keep more and more things secret. Because that is what I did, for a very long time.”

Oisin’s expression wavers.

Her eyes get a little misty again.

“What happened?” she asks him.

“A lot of old wounds were struck,” he says. “They do not matter so much now. Except that they add to all the worries that your other parents and I have. I know we have been watching you very often, and very closely, and I know it seems… excessive. But it is because we have all loved people who hurt us. Some of them even hurt us on purpose. And we never want you to be hurt like that.”

He falls silent. So does Oisin, for a little while. She looks thoughtful, though. And the mistiness in her eyes eventually gives way to a few sniffles, only, as she wipes at her face. Her eyelner smears more, and Thenvunin thinks he shall have to find her something better to use. It can be hard to come across good face paints. He whispers a spell onto her handkerchief, at that, and helps wipe the whole of it away.

When he face is clean, she sighs.

“Nenae says that sometimes you have to get hit in order to learn how to dodge,” she tells him.

He lets out a long sigh of his own.

“That is true,” he concedes, and bites down all the protestations that want to come tumbling out after.

Oisin’s mouth twists wryly.

“But I remember my Papae lunging between me and a stray branch before it could smack me in the face,” she says.

“It is not a parent’s job to let their child be struck,” he says, defensively. _The rest of the world strikes hard enough on its own._

“No, but, I do not think it is a parent’s job to chaperone all their child’s dates until the end of time, either,” she counters.

“…Perhaps,” he concedes.

It earns him a small smile. Which is unfair, given that Thenvunin has no recourse against it, except to reach over and draw his daughter closer. He presses a kiss to her brow, and closes his eyes in relief over the hug she gives him in return. At least she is not furious with him. Virevas would be. And Einin would be more resistant to cuddling, so soon after an upset. Ardal and Oisin are forgiving types, though.

“Does this mean you are going to stop following us around everywhere?” Oisin suggests, optimistically.

Thenvunin hesitates.

“…We can discuss it,” he decides. “As a family. Perhaps.”

She hums, not quite pleased but not wholly disappointed, either.

After a moment, Thenvunin rubs at her back, and leans aside enough to look at her.

“So how was the kiss?” he wonders.

She beams at him.

“It was _wonderful!”_ she insists. “I felt it all the way to my toes. Like casting a spell, almost.”

Despite himself, and all his misgivings, Thenvunin feels something tight in his chest unclench a little. And at Oisin’s unhesitating and unabashed happiness, he indulges in some of his own.

Love is good. Love is amazing. He wants her to have it.

He just… needs to remind himself of that point more often.


End file.
